


adjudication

by bottomlinsons



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Class Differences, Communication Failure, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Historical Conflict, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Miscommunication, Or maybe just poor communication, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Political Alliances, Politics, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Yep lets call it that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 75,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomlinsons/pseuds/bottomlinsons
Summary: Harry's been engaged to Princess Charlotte of Ryde for as long as he can remember. He's come to know her, to love her, through the letters she's sent him over the past three years.But when the wedding finally arrives, Harry quickly learns that nothing is as it seems. With his crown and country at stake, Harry must decide who to trust in this strange new land. And the sly Crown Prince of Ryde doesn't seem inclined to make things easy.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Lottie Tomlinson/Original Male Character(s), Michal Mlynowski/Gemma Styles
Comments: 335
Kudos: 954
Collections: HL Royalty Fic Fest 2019/20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Housekeeping: 
> 
> ♚ This fic was inspired by 'The Spanish Princess' on Stan, which follows the life of Catherine of Aragon as she travelled to England to marry Prince Arthur and later Prince Henry (who went on to become King Henry VIII). I would absolutely recommend you all go watch it, as well as it's predecessors: 'The White Queen' and 'The White Princess' (which is my favourite of the three!) 
> 
> ♚ As I'm no expert in historical matters, the countries and kingdoms in this fic are entirely fictional. I took inspiration for them from France, Spain, and England. In my head, the time is very similar to the Tudor era. 
> 
> ♚ Inspiration for the letters included in this fic comes from historical love letters written by Napoleon to Joséphine, Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, and Hemingway to Dietrich. May we all one day find love as meaningful as theirs. 
> 
> ♚ The letter banners for each POV come from a website called 'fontmeme'. 
> 
> ♚ The title for this fic comes from the chess term, using adjudication as a way to decide the result of an unfinished game. My knowledge of chess hinges on my very short time with my high school chess club. Sorry if I've butchered it in any way. 
> 
> ♚ Jay is featured in this fic, but unfortunately Fizzy is not. I wasn't able to find a way to include her that felt respectful but not forced, so I chose to leave her out. 
> 
> ♚ Thank you to the hlroyaltyficfest for running and moderating this fest! Wouldn't be here without you! 
> 
> ♚ Finishing this fic has been truly a battle at times, and I commend my faves ( Sarah, Eve, Hannah, Serena, Nery, Jen, Anitra, and Sus) for listening to me whine about it for as long as they have. 
> 
> I'll leave you guys there. I have some mixed feelings about the finished work but I hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless. Please, if you have a mo, leave your thoughts in a comment. xx

**A D J U D I C A T I O N**

♚

♚

Harry’s first step onto Ryde soil feels more momentous than it is. 

When he jumps off the skiff, he lands in water that rises to just above his knees. Even in the shallows, the waves are enough to knock him off his feet. The ground beneath him is more akin to gravel than anything Harry recognises as sand. The beach is bracketed by tall white cliffs, peppered by scant tufts of grass and the odd bird’s nest. In the distance, he can see the walls of Kingscliff Abbey, the first stop on their journey this side of the ocean. Staring up at it, hidden away on this unwelcoming beach, Harry feels absurdly small. 

He isn’t ready for this. 

The waves crash into the side of the small skiff, slamming it into Harry’s hip. Already unbalanced by the violence of the water, Harry stumbles from the weight of it. He’s only saved by Niall, who’d jumped out moments before him and seems to have found his footing in this strange, barren sand. 

He catches Harry with a careful hand on Harry’s arm. His grip is tight, telegraphing exactly how much effort it’s taking him to stay standing. At least it’s not only Harry that’s unsteady. 

“Careful, Your Highness.” 

Niall doesn’t use Harry’s official address very often. These past few months they’d become incredibly casual with one another, living in such close quarters on the ship. Niall had even taken to using some of Harry’s childhood nicknames if he was sure the Captain wasn’t in earshot. 

Now they’re on their best behaviour. They have been since their ship had sailed into the bay. They’re both wary of the party that awaits them onshore, watching them from the drier part of the beach. Queen Johannah has sent some of her closest advisors to greet them, and everyone is overly cautious under their watchful eye. 

Once Harry regains his balance, he shoots Niall a grateful look. “Thank you.” 

There are three men still in the small boat. They’re practically old friends, they’ve worked in Harry’s household for so long. They’ll be responsible for bringing the small boat onto shore now that Harry and Niall are both out. If they were still at home Harry would linger and help them. That’s not an option today. 

“You only get one chance at a first impression,” Niall had said when they’d first glimpsed Ryde on the horizon. “Everything you do will be reported back to the Queen. _Everything._ ” 

Harry takes a deep breath to brace himself. Even the air tastes different here, frigid and cold. The wind is harsh enough to sting at his skin. He manages to keep a steady footing as he makes his way to dry land, Niall at his side. 

And then there it is. His first step. His new country. 

How absurd that such an insignificant thing should feel so large. But then, Harry won’t go back to Andras again for years. Maybe not ever. Surely that loss should earn him a moment’s pause. 

But no, even as he thinks it, he is taking his second step. Then his third.

Without the water dragging at his heels, the walk to meet their welcome party is much faster. There is a small carpet laid out on the sand in front of them, large enough for them to stand and still leave room for Harry and Niall to join them. It's a grand material, Harry notices as they approach, immediately sullied by the seawater and sand from his and Niall’s boots. 

The first of the three men in front of them Harry knows. They’ve never met, but the crest on his tunic is clear enough. _Look for a bear, brown,_ Harry remembers, _standing beside a silver shield._ His name is Liam Payne, the second Earl of Hadleigh. He is their official escort for their journey to the capital, a close family friend of the Queen’s, and the highest-ranking member of their welcome party. 

The two behind him are strangers, but it’s plain to see from their dress that they don’t hold the same rank as the Earl. He’s the one that Queen Johannah has sent. Knowing who he is, already understanding exactly how much his opinion means to the Queen, is akin to wearing a suit of armour. Harry’s thoughts flick gratefully to his letters, stowed safely away in a small chest amongst his belongings. 

“My Lord,” Niall steps forward, directing his greeting to Sir Liam Payne. “May I present His Royal Highness, Prince Harry of Andras, Earl of Briele, Duke of Caradoc and Great Steward of Gwynn.” 

When Harry was young, he’d been so embarrassed by the length of his name. Niall didn’t have a title so long or so silly. Now that he’s older, he sees its advantages. The main being the time it gives him to think. 

The Earl has the stance of a proud man. He keeps his broad shoulders straight, his hands held neatly at his front as he listens to Niall’s introduction. He has a sharp brow bone, which gives him a severe look when his head is tilted down. It is an interesting contrast to what Harry has already been told. 

_One might search for years on end to find a man nobler than Sir Liam Payne, and they would never succeed. He is one of the best men I have ever known._

Harry searches for evidence of this on the man’s face. It’s not an easy task. Just as Harry has, it appears that the Earl has learnt how to keep his face clear. 

His gaze flicks now between Niall and Harry. There is no doubt he’s assessing them in exactly the same way. It’s difficult not to wonder about what he sees. Probably a man soaked to his knees, tan from months in the sun but slightly pale now, from the choppy journey to the shore. What does he think of Harry’s clothes? Fashion has always been a bit different between their two countries. Andras has a love of colour that Harry has never seen replicated across the seas. Does Lord Liam Payne think the rich red and purple tones of Harry’s surcoat is too much? 

Perhaps he’s comparing Harry to the portraits his mother has sent to Ryde over the years. Harry’s always found it funny to see how he lives up to one person’s expectations. It’s not so amusing that Harry has to live up to an entire country’s. 

Whatever Lord Payne thinks, he keeps it hidden. “Your Highness. It is a pleasure to meet you, finally.” 

For a moment Harry worries this is a slight. _Finally,_ they’ve arrived after months of delay. The wind, the rain, an attack from rebels on their journey. All these things had kept Harry away from this wet, windy country. They’re also nothing Harry could have controlled. 

When he finishes, though, the Earl smiles and nods his head to Harry. Smiling, he looks every inch the kind man that’s been described. “My name is Liam Payne. I’ll be the one to escort you to Haverhill.” 

So, his crest, and Harry’s letters, were right. Harry hadn’t been worried, but it’s nice to see it confirmed either way. It doesn’t escape Harry that Liam Payne has omitted his title, though. Is he just a humble man? Or is this a test? 

“It’s good to have finally arrived, Lord Payne.” This doesn’t show all of Harry’s cards. It only proves that Harry has done his research, that he’s learnt about the people that are soon to surround him. A flash in Liam’s eye says he’s caught it. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have solid ground under our feet once more.” 

Lord Payne smiles again. “You’re not a man of the seas, then?”

It’s good to hear a joke, but Harry doesn’t let his guard down just yet. There’s too much at stake for Harry to forget that this is politics. “Not for two months, at least.” 

Lord Payne nods. “You’ve certainly been on a long journey.” If that was another test, Harry feels that he’s passed comfortably. “We have a meal prepared for you at the Abbey. That should help you feel more at home.”

 _At home._ Christ, what a thing to hear. 

There’s something he’ll have to get used to. 

Harry keeps his face as clear as possible. “That sounds wonderful.” Before anyone can move, he holds his arm out and gestures to Niall. “This is Sir Niall Horan, Duke of Ilowwyn and one of my oldest friends.” 

Niall nods his head. He always looks a little stiff when caught up in Harry’s diplomacy. 

“Very good to meet you.” Lord Payne nods his head to Niall too, a clear sign of respect even though he outranks Niall by a mile. He doesn’t introduce the men who stand behind him. They might be guards, Harry guesses, there to make sure that the journey to Haverhill is a safe one. Maybe Queen Johannah is worried that Harry’s bad luck might delay them even further. “We’ve brought horses to take us to the Abbey while your belongings are brought to shore.”

Harry’s pretty sure he would search for hours and never find a path up the white cliffs. He certainly can’t see a way that horses will manage it. It’s clear he’s going to have to place his faith in their escort. Isn’t that a telling start to his time in this country? A journey of blind faith. 

“Excellent, thank you.” 

Liam turns and motions for them to follow him. His unnamed companions fall into step behind Harry and Niall. It’s only when they get a little further up the beach that Harry sees where the horses are tied. 

“I’m afraid we won’t stay at the Abbey for long, Your Highness,” Lord Payne says as he leads them. “We have quite the trip to make, and as you know time is short.” 

Harry does know. He’s getting married in a month. There’s no time to waste. 

♚

Harry has exchanged letters with Charlotte Tomlinson, the Princess of Ryde and Duchess of Ellesmere, for three years now. 

It was Gemma’s idea. He’d always felt comfortable sharing his secrets with her, and his hesitancy around his engagement was no different. They’d been engaged since he was five years old, a union organised by their mothers the year that Charlotte was born. Andras and Ryde were already allies, but the formal union of their countries would strengthen that bond even further. It used to make him sad, how little control he had over his own future, but he’d eventually come around to the idea. There were more important things than his own individual happiness, after all. 

“Who is to say you won’t find happiness with her?” Gemma had asked him, when he’d said as much to her. 

That had thrown Harry for a moment. “Well,” he recalls stuttering. “I don’t know her.” 

“That can be easily remedied, can’t it?” 

She’d put the paper in his hand not five minutes later. She hadn’t stayed while he’d written his first clumsy correspondence, but she had been there to make sure it was sent with the earliest rider. 

_Princess Charlotte,_

_I will admit I do not quite know how to begin my writing to you. It is surely something mysterious that allows me to write to my future bride so far in advance of our union. I will think of it as an opportunity not offered to many. I can only hope, as you are in the same position as I, that you will be open to reading my correspondence and perhaps, if you are amenable, send your own to me one day._

_We are to be wed. This is one undoubtable truth. What remains uncertain is the time spent before this. Who will we be when we meet at the altar?_

_It is my hope that we will not be strangers. I would like to know you as more than simply the portraits that your mother sends, and I would hope to be more than that to you as well._

_Here is something about me, to begin with. I love to read. I have heard your mother has amassed a fine library in Haverhill castle and I look forward to seeing it myself one day. Are there any texts you might recommend I start with?_

_You need not answer me if you do not wish. I write as I know I would disappoint myself if I were to stay silent. If that is your preference then I will have learned that, at least, about you and will be satisfied._

_Be safe and healthy, Princess. I wish the same for all of Ryde._

_H_

Harry had watched the rider go, twisting his hands together. Gemma had stood at her side, one arm around his shoulder, effortless reassuring as she always was. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss her. She may yet surprise you.” 

And she had. 

Her response certainly hadn’t come quickly. Months passed, and Harry’s tentative sense of hope began to dim. It was a long way between their countries, of course, but the time it took for her letter to arrive was far longer than just the rider’s return journey. It was almost triple that, actually. 

But it had come. He was alone when it did — his mother attending to the country’s affairs and training Gemma on how to take them on. She would be Queen one day, after all. Harry was left out of that mostly, the blessing and the curse of being the second born. He didn’t mind it. It gave him more time to spend with his own passions — languages, poetry and art. 

And reading letters, as it turned out. He’d almost torn the paper in his hastiness to break the wax seal on the letter and unfolded it with shaky hands. 

_Prince Harry,_

_Please forgive my late reply. I must admit I was surprised to receive your letter and did not immediately know how to respond._

_You are right that ours is a unique situation, and one that is unfamiliar to most. But you are also right that it is something that we share. I think this must make us allies, and I will be happy to know more about you._

_My mother has curated quite the collection for our library here. I’ll admit that I haven’t spent much time there, although I hope that one day you might make it a space of your own. As I am empty handed, I have asked my mother for a recommendation for you. She says there is an anthology that we keep here, filled with poems written by Ambrose Talbot. I have not been able to read them all yet, but I have included a passage below that intrigued me:_

_On the wing, the raven flies_

_The map of its journey, a single line._

_How does he travel with such_

_Certainty? Can it be the wind?_

_Or can it be no matter to him._

_The wind simply blows and_

_He knows the way home_

_I hope you do not think me foolish, but I think of us as the raven. Ours is not the first arranged match in this world, nor will it be the last, but it still feels like uncharted territory to me. Hopefully, like the raven, we will find our way somehow._

_I look forward to learning more about you._

_Kind wishes to you and your countrymen._

_Princess Charlotte_

It is probably one of the letters that Harry cherishes most. He remembers how excited he’d been when he’d received it. She liked _poetry._ There was hope after all. He’d kept every letter from then on. He has them all still, each one that Charlotte has sent through the years, kept safe in a chest that travels with him. He wonders if she’s kept his in the same way. One day, they may even marry their collection together. 

His face feels warm at the thought.

It feels too bold to say that he loves her. They’ve never met, and of course things may be different when they speak in person. But they have loved each other, in their letters if nothing else. Charlotte, when she writes, is kind and compassionate. She speaks about her people and her country with a tenderness and respect that had taken Harry off guard at first. He’d met royals from other nations who cared more for their jewels and their castles than they did for the people they ruled. It was refreshing to see that Charlotte genuinely cared about her country’s policies, even if they fell outside of her purview. Her brother would be the King after Queen Johannah so that responsibility would fall to him. Still, Harry loved that she was interested, that these things mattered to her. 

The thought of their marriage had once filled him with dread. He’d heard of loveless marriages such as theirs, strangers masquerading as spouses, both living a life unfulfilled. He’d heard of the opposite, too, but he hadn’t dared to dream of that for himself. It seemed foolish to wish to be one of the lucky ones. 

Not anymore. Now, travelling slowly towards Haverhill and with his letters in tow, Harry feels brave enough to let hope bloom in his chest. 

He can’t wait to meet her. 

♚

When they arrive at the Abbey, the first thing Lord Payne does is introduce Harry to the Abbot. 

“It is such a pleasure to have you with us at Kingscliff,” the man says, practically glowing he seems so thrilled. 

“It’s a pleasure to be with you,” Harry tells him. “And Kingscliff seems to be the perfect beginning to my time in Ryde.”

It becomes quickly clear that the Abbot could talk with Harry for hours if permitted. Lord Payne rescues Harry before that happens. “If you’ll excuse me, Abbot, I believe the Prince might like to rest before we dine this evening. Is there someone that’s able to show us to our rooms?” 

“Certainly, certainly,” the Abbot says hastily. He beckons a monk over to them. “This is Brother John; he’ll take you to the rooms we’ve set aside.” 

Harry smiles at the monk, who bows his head in reply. 

Lord Payne grins. “Wonderful,” he says. Before Harry and Niall can move, though, he’s waving his hand over to the guards that had rode with them up the cliff. “My men will assist you with your things.” 

Not guards then, Harry thinks. 

“Oh no,” Harry says, “There’s no need for that. My men are bringing everything up from the beach, I’ll have more than enough help.” 

Lord Payne doesn’t budge. “A few extra hands can’t hurt, can it? I insist.” 

So, these men are spies, then.

Well, it’s not as if Harry hasn’t been expecting it. 

Harry relents with what he hopes is an easy smile. It would be far too suspicious for him to deny Lord Payne again. “Well, that is very kind of you. Thank you, Lord Payne.” 

It’s strange to see this man, who Charlotte has spoken so highly of, employ such tactics. Spying is the underhanded way of Harry’s enemies. Certainly not something he expected from the man she’d described. 

That man shines through again as Lord Payne smiles. “Please, Your Highness. We are to be almost family. Call me Liam.” 

Liam, then. Harry nods his agreement and can’t help but smile with him. Another thing Charlotte has always said of Liam was that he was loyal to a fault. Maybe Harry just has to earn it. 

He lets Liam’s men shadow him and Niall as they follow the monk to their rooms. They’re taken to the northern tower of the Abbey, where two rooms have been cleared for each of them. They reach Harry’s rooms first, so he steps away and to the side to let Niall continue up the narrow stairs. One of Liam’s mean falls easily into line with him, looking completely comfortable in this awkward silence. 

There’s a jug of wine in the corner, so with nothing else to do Harry pours himself a drink. He takes a long drink, then moves instinctively closer to a fire burning in the far room. This country is freezing cold, and the stone walls of the Abbey do little to stop the howling wind from flooding the halls. He’ll take whatever warmth he can get. 

Slowly, gradually, Harry’s belongings are brought up, carried by mostly familiar faces. When he’d left, his mother had told Harry to bring people from his household with him. _It will help you feel more at home there,_ she’d told him. He’s surprised to realise how right she is. Seeing them here, the same as he would have seen in his rooms back in Andras, settles him a little. 

When they’ve brought all of his things up Harry dismisses them. They should have a few hours of rest before they need to prepare him for dinner. He expects Liam’s companion to leave with them when they go. 

He doesn’t though. Instead, he asks, “Is this all that you’ve brought then, Your Highness?” 

Harry startles. It isn’t entirely out of the question for a servant to address him directly, but it’s happened so rarely in Harry’s life that it catches him completely off guard. “I’m sorry?” 

The man ducks his head. It’s _almost_ the deferential gesture that Harry is used to, but something about it isn’t quite right. His eyes — a striking blue — never leave Harry’s. “My apologies, Your Highness. I simply wondered if you were missing any of your cases. There isn’t much here.” 

Harry glances around. The two small rooms are certainly more than enough to fit Harry’s personal things. He’d packed to suit a journey at sea, which hadn’t left much space for surplus. Admittedly, it does leave the rooms looking a little sparse.

It seems a bit rude to comment, though. And definitely not subtle, if that’s what this spy was going for. 

“No,” Harry says slowly. “This is everything.” 

The man nods his head once. He doesn’t seem concerned by Harry’s surprise, or by his own obvious misstep. He just moves to the nearest chest — Harry’s travel clothes for the journey to Haverhill, already opened and half unpacked by one of Harry’s people — and lifts out the first garment. “Very good, Your Highness.” Entirely unconcerned he holds it up to Harry. “Are you hoping to wear this when we depart tomorrow?” 

Harry does his best not to gape. If the first question had been a little out of the ordinary, this one is cast from the realm entirely. Harry has his own servants to dress him, and even they wouldn’t touch Harry’s clothes without prompting. 

“Yes?” He doesn’t mean to sound so uncertain, but that’s the way the words escape him. If Niall were here, then Harry would at least have an ally in this bizarre situation. As it is, he is alone. 

Something flashes across the servant’s face. Surely it can’t be amusement? 

“Ah. And, uh, are you quite decided on those for tomorrow then, Your Highness?” 

Harry can hardly believe what he’s hearing. It’s not that he minds people questioning his decisions — he just hadn’t expected it to start so quickly, and to come from this man in particular. 

The spy doesn’t miss Harry’s expression. For the first time, he seems to catch himself. “It’s only that the weather in Ryde isn’t as warm as you might hope.” 

Harry has always admired people who are bold, so as his surprise melts away he finds it replaced by intrigue. He’s maybe a little amused himself. “Ah. And you have insights as to my hopes, do you?” 

Someone else might have been cowed. Not this man. His brow quirks up a little. He is still watching Harry evenly, the hint of a challenge lingering in the curve of his smile. “Only so far as your choice of riding clothes suggests.” 

Caught by the man’s expression, Harry almost misses that the man has forgotten to use Harry’s title. _Almost._

Now isn’t the time to point it out. No, Harry wants to know where this will lead. 

“And what do my riding clothes tell you?” 

The man glances at the clothes, taking a moment and measuring his response. “Well,” he says when he’s apparently settled on something. “That you intend to ride, for one thing. I would recommend against that. We’re not expecting the sun to shine properly for several weeks yet.” 

This man is a truly terrible spy. He’s far too relaxed around Harry, and he’s become so far too quickly. If Harry had to guess, he’d say that this man has grown comfortable in Liam’s presence, has probably worked for him for years, and forgotten he can’t behave that way with other people of rank. 

It’s so entertaining, Harry wants to draw it out. “Is that right?” 

The man nods. “Absolutely, Your Highness.” There, the title is back. That’s a bit better — Harry would appreciate at least some semblance of subterfuge. “Ryde doesn’t see warm weather until the end of August at least.” 

Harry takes a sip of his wine. He’d forgotten it was in his hand for a moment there. Now that he doesn’t feel quite so unbalanced, he relaxes enough to remember it. “What would you recommend for tomorrow, then?” 

The man doesn’t hesitate. “Something a little sturdier, like this, if you insist on riding.” He gestures towards the doublet he’d pulled from Harry’s chest of garments. “If you want my honest advice, though, I’d say travelling in the cart is the wisest choice.” 

Honest, Harry thinks. That’s a bit rich. 

Besides, Harry’s been at sea for _weeks._ The only thing he wants more than to finally meet Charlotte is a chance to feel back at home on land. His freedom is restricted to the path they’ll travel, but the idea of riding on horseback to Haverhill is too good to pass up. 

“I prefer to ride, where possible,” Harry says. 

The spy nods. He was expecting that, apparently, because he barely even blinks. “I understand, Your Highness. I’ll let the stables know to prepare.” 

That makes Harry frown. “What is there to prepare?” All he needs to do is request a mount tomorrow, and Liam has assured him that the horses they’d ridden from the beach were at Harry’s disposal. 

“You’ll need a riding escort, Your Highness.” The man says it as if it’s obvious, despite clearly knowing that Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He feigns surprise when Harry looks confused. “In Ryde, on a formal journey such as this, you’ll require a four-horse escort when journeying on horseback, should something go wrong.” 

It’s a swift reminder that Harry is the foreigner here. No matter how clumsy this spy is with the tactics he employs, he has the upper hand. This is his country, and it is as unfamiliar to Harry as the moon. Ryde’s customs, their policies and their odd little quirks, have only ever existed for Harry as something to study. This man lives and breathes them. 

“Ah.” Harry isn’t too cowardly to admit when he’s been caught off guard. “I didn’t know that.” And certainly, if his choice to ride impacts so many others, then Harry can’t be selfish. “In that case I will ride in the cart. I’m happy to risk the bad weather myself, but I won’t force it on others.” 

The man has a way about his face, something that tells Harry he’s carefully cataloguing everything that he sees and hears. If any of this gets back to Liam — which it surely will — then Harry wants them to be clear about what sort of a man Harry is. 

Harry watches as the man takes it in, filing this away with all the rest of the information he’s clearly gathered from their exchange so far. There’s something of a smile on his lips now. Is he impressed? Or amused again, maybe. “Very good, Your Highness.” 

He doesn’t say anything else and the room falls quiet. Now there’s really no excuse for the man to be lingering as he is, and Harry’s patience with these tests is thinning. 

He keeps his most genial smile on his face and says, “Well. Thank you for the advice.” 

It’s the clearest dismissal he can offer without being rude, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the spy. He nods, a knowing look in his eye, and bows his head. Again, when his head tilts his gaze stays focused on Harry. 

“You’re welcome.” He leaves a pause, a beat, then another. He smiles again when he finishes pointedly, “ _Your Highness_.” 

He departs quietly, quickly, leaving Harry alone and feeling oddly windswept by the whole affair. There’s a lot to think about, too much to comb through in the short time before dining. It might be worth talking it all over with Niall, although Harry can already imagine the righteous indignation on his friend’s face when he finds out about the interrogation. 

That’s what it was, Harry realises belatedly. While odd, and certainly not subtle, the entire conversation was clearly a test of some kind. It’s only the results that remain to be seen. And Harry’s as unsure about those as he is about everything else in this strange country. 

♚

His journey to Haverhill will take four days. This, Harry has been expecting. Every moment of his journey from Andras has been mapped years in advance, and he’d learnt the schedule by heart months before actually leaving his home. Despite being delayed on the seas, everything in Ryde remained the same as he’d been told. One night in Kingscliff Abbey, the second in a small village called Avery, and the third and fourth at Foley House; a manor about half a day’s ride from the grand capital. 

Princess Charlotte was at Foley House already, waiting there for him. This, like everything else to do with his wedding, had been planned by their mothers. It gave them the opportunity to meet away from the prying eyes of the court, Harry’s mother had told him. Of course, Harry had no doubt that all the important courtiers had travelled with Charlotte just to witness the event. 

Either way, it did lessen the pressure a little. 

Just a little. 

The cart that Harry had spent the last two days in certainly wasn’t the finest carriage Harry had ever seen. It creaked when it moved, and the ride was bumpy even on the smoothest roads. If you could call them roads, that is. Either way, it hadn’t been a pleasant journey. 

The rain had poured non-stop, causing Harry to resentfully admit that Liam’s spy had been right about the choice to stay off horseback. What little glimpses of the country Harry had been able to snatch were from the inside of the cart, through heavy velvet curtains. It was an incredibly green country, that much he had learnt. And wet. Harry felt charmed by it though. Charlotte had warned him of the weather in her letters, but she’d always said that made her more appreciative of the sunshine when it fought its way through the clouds. When he’d first read that, Harry had thought it was a little silly. In Andras the sun shone relentlessly. It seemed odd to yearn for that when it had been such a constant in his life. He understood now, though. Having endured so much of this gloomy grey weather, he couldn’t wait to spot a beam of sunshine pushing through the darkness. 

It was ridiculous to think, but the two days in the back of the cart felt far longer than the entire journey from Andras so far. They’d weathered two storms so violent that Harry had been sure the ship would go down. Before they’d even left Andras they’d been in peril — a band of rebels from Vierres had attacked less than a week after they’d left the city.

All of that was fine, he realises now, compared to the sheer terror of meeting Charlotte. Who would have thought that simply stepping out of a carriage would be the most frightening moment of all? 

When the cart rolls to a halt, ending the last leg of their journey, Harry takes a final second to peek through the curtains. On the front steps of the hall, there’s a crowd of people waiting for him, among them the hint of a royal blue gown. Before Harry can search out any more clues, a footman opens the door of the carriage, flooding the dark space with light. 

He leans back, surprised for just a moment before he regains his composure. Then there’s nothing left to do but step off the cliff. 

He squints a little when he takes his first step out into the open. This country is grey and rainy, but somehow the sun still manages to make the clouds glare bright. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes, straightening his back as he adjust to the light. 

She, of course, is the first person he sees. 

She looks like her portrait, he thinks. There are a few differences though, small but impossible to miss. Her eyes are softer, more open than the painting had suggested. In the portrait, she’d been seated, staring at the painter with a small but knowing smile on her face. It’s a smile that she’s inherited from her mother, if their ambassador to Ryde was to be believed. Today, her smile is much brighter, more diplomatic. It betrays nothing of what she must be thinking, looking at him for the first time. 

Her dress is a flash of rich colour amongst her courtiers. The three ladies that surround her are wearing browns, reds and yellows. Harry can’t help but think that the contrast is there by design, a tactic to draw his eye. 

Either way, it has worked. There is no doubt in Harry’s mind as he approaches; this is Charlotte, his future wife, and the woman he’s shared his innermost thoughts with for almost three years. 

Niall introduces him. He does well, even if he is a little more awkward than he had been on the beach. The man who introduces the Princess is much the same. 

How do you introduce two people who’ve been engaged since birth? 

It would be so nice, Harry thinks as her titles are listed, to just sit and speak with her. To hear her voice when she’s relaxed, to see if the sharpness behind her eyes is always there, or if it softens when she doesn’t feel so on show. 

“It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Haverhill, Prince Harry,” she says when the formal introductions are finished. She’s the shortest of the crowd on the steps, but he only notices it now. There is a stern line to the set of her shoulders, held back, spine straight, that seems to compensate for the lack of height. If it weren’t for the way his chin drops to look down at her, he might not have noticed at all. “I hope you have had a pleasant journey.”

Harry thinks back to the cart and the ache in his thighs and back from being stowed in such cramped quarters for so long. Now probably isn’t the best time to bring those things up. “We have, Your Highness,” he says. “I must thank you, and the Queen, for your hospitality.” 

And that’s all they’re able to say. She nods at his thanks, and the man who’d introduced her steps back in. He introduces Harry to the owners of Foley House, a Lord and Lord Villabonne who have organised a lunch for everyone, and to some of the ladies who surround Charlotte. They stand around her like an armed guard, and move with her when she walks inside. They even stay at her side when they’re seated, ensuring Harry is kept at a distance at all times. 

Frustration bites at Harry when he realises how far away they’re sitting from one another, but he stifles it. They’re getting married, after all. There will be years for them to talk. 

In the absence of finally speaking to his future wife, Harry distracts himself by taking in the house. Outside, Foley House was made of rich orange bricks and grand gold trimmings on the door and the windows. Inside it is just as resplendent. The floors are a dark polished wood, a dramatic contrast to the walls, which seem to feature every colour that Harry’s ever seen. There is a bright tapestry that hangs from the walls, framed between two narrow windows, depicting what Harry recognises as the Battle of Johnstone Field. King Jon the First — Queen Johannah’s grandfather — is depicted at its centre, a shining yellow light surrounding him and his victory. It’s a proud moment in Ryde’s history, one of the first battles Harry had learnt about in his studies. 

He spends most of his meal admiring the tapestry. Gemma was an avid weaver as they’d been growing up, so Harry knew how much time and dedication it took. Of course, conversation interrupts him from time to time. It’s difficult to really participate though. There’s too much on his mind. 

Charlotte is quiet too, he notices. 

When they’ve finished eating, the shorter Lord Villabonne is the first to notice that the weather outside has improved. 

“Oh!” he says, clapping his hands together. “This is such a good sign, Your Highnesses. The sun is shining for you!” 

Harry’s not sure he’d call this ‘shining’ but it is a little brighter outside than it had been before. 

“You must chance a look at the garden, while the weather behaves,” Lord Villabonne goes on. This is directed more so to Charlotte, but Harry catches the subtle glance that’s also sent his way. “It’s my favourite place in all of Ryde.”

He’s a dramatic man, Harry decides, but he doesn’t mind it. Lord Villabonne’s enthusiasm seems to bleed into the people around him, encouraging Charlotte’s ladies to excitedly nod their heads in agreement. He even brightens up his dour husband. The other Lord Villabonne watches them with a fond look in his eye. He, unlike his bright and bubbly partner, has a sterner look about him. It might be the jet-black hair, scraped back tightly and held in a low bun at the back of his head. It gives him a severe look, his husband’s polar opposite. 

Charlotte isn’t quite so caught up in it, but she does offer the grinning Villabonne a smile. “You certainly do speak of it often at court, Joseph.” 

Suddenly, the garden and it’s open spaces seem far more intriguing. Harry finds his voice, clearing his throat so he doesn’t catch them off guard. When everyone’s head swings in his direction, Harry says, “I have yet to see a Ryde garden. I’ve heard wonderful things about them.” 

Charlotte looks straight at him. Her gaze is purely analytical. “Well then, Prince Harry. With one just outside your door, this is an opportunity you surely cannot miss.” 

There’s a challenge there that Harry catches straight away. The entire table watches them, unashamed. Harry can’t blame them for it. 

He keeps his features as smooth as possible. “You’re absolutely right, Princess.” He stands, and half the table hastily follows him. Charlotte stays where she is, watching him as he walks down the table towards her. “Would you care to join me?” 

She lets him wait for just a moment before nodding. She shoots a quick look to the ladies on either side of her, who stand as she does. Niall follows Harry in the same way. He’s got a smile on his face that suggests he’d be grinning if it was only him and Harry. It’s one of his favourite things, to be in a situation like this. Niall has always found endless entertainment in the games played at court, hidden so poorly behind polite smiles. It appears Ryde is no different. 

Spurred on by their interest, Joseph Villabonne begins to share the details behind his garden. He directs them to walk down the hall, to another exit that Harry hasn’t seen yet. Harry waits for Charlotte to fall into step beside him, then they lead the way outside. 

It is a little brighter outside than it had been before. Clouds still crowd the sky, casting shade in equal measure across the ground, but the sunshine that does break through the gaps is glorious. It illuminates patches of the sprawling garden, catching on coloured flowers and the moisture that wets the grass. 

There’s a wide stone staircase down to the grounds, which they spill onto now. Ivy has crawled up the walls of the house on this side, masking the bright orange brick with a vibrant green canopy. It’s gorgeous, and like nothing Harry has ever seen before. Plants like these would die in days in Andras. Although Ryde is wet and cold, the foliage is lusher than anything Harry has ever seen before. 

Still feeling brave, he says so the Princess. 

“Really?” she says. “I’ve been told the castle in Vierres is surrounded by gardens.” 

“It is,” Harry replies. “But not like this. We don’t have anything quite this… _green._ ” 

Again, they are interrupted by the people that surround them. This time it’s the stern Lord Villabonne, singing the praises of his husband. Harry listens to him politely, nodding and stealing a glance at the Princess every chance he has. She is smiling just as diplomatically. It’s a relief when the Lord finishes. “The best way to see it is to walk amongst it, is it not?” 

As they start through the gardens, the Lords Villabonne fall into step behind Harry and Charlotte. Harry stays quiet, becoming accustomed to the short procession they lead. Behind them, Harry can hear Niall beginning to speak to some of Charlotte’s ladies. It’s reassuring and settles the tension in the air. 

When he glances at her, Harry can see the same uncertainty on Charlotte’s face that he feels himself. No matter how tall she’d stood, she’s still his partner in this, and probably just as overwhelmed. Empathy swells in him. 

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” 

It’s a good question to start with. She huffs a laugh but seems to relax a little. “That would be the understatement of the century.” 

It’s the first thing she’s said that hasn’t been steeped in proprietary, which is so refreshing that Harry can’t help but laugh with her. Maybe soon he’ll see the part of her that he’s come to know so well through her letters. “Yes, well. I hope I haven’t made it too awful for you. I’m sorry again for the delay I took in getting here.” 

If he’d been able, he would have written ahead and told her of their journey’s many problems. It wasn’t possible though. He’d arrive before any letter could be delivered. 

“I can’t fault you for weathering a storm, can I?” 

She doesn’t seem to harbour any resentment to have not heard from him. Harry sighs a little, relieved. “I’d hope not.” 

She laughs again. “You’re safe from that, at least. From here, though, you’re on your own.” 

Harry tries not to smile too broadly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Mhmm, I think you’d better,” Charlotte hums. 

He doesn’t quite recognise the woman from his letters yet, but this feels like the first hint. He is already a mess of nerves, but now hope tickles at his chest. It’s intoxicating, the first reassuring feeling he’s felt since stepping from the cart, and he can’t help but grasp for more. 

Emboldened, he says, “You know, since we left Andras, I’ve had a lot of free time to think.” 

She quirks a brow at him. “I should hope so. You’ve been travelling for almost two months.” 

Yes, that probably was a foolish thing to say. Of course he’s been thinking with all that free time to himself. Harry feels his cheeks heat a little. 

“Right.” He fights not to let his embarrassment kick him too drastically off course. It was just a slip. “I only mean, once the novelty of being at sea wears off, you really are just adrift. You’ll find your mind wanders in the same way.” 

She doesn’t spend too much time lingering with his blunder. She nods, patiently. “So how do you entertain yourself?” 

“Well, you met my friend, Sir Niall,” he motions in Niall’s direction, but Niall doesn’t notice. He’s too busy regaling the people who walk beside him with some grand tale. “He’s a fine hand at the fiddle. His playing certainly helped the time pass quickly.” 

Charlotte looks interested in that. She’d already told Harry in their letters that her family was filled with a love for music. “He’ll have to play for us one day.” 

Harry nods. “He’d be more than happy to oblige if you asked him, Princess.” 

She smiles again. “I look forward to it. Was it only music that kept you sane on your journey?” 

Harry’s heart thunders. This is it, a perfect opening. He takes a deep breath. “Not only. I often think of your raven. _The wind simply blows, and he knows the way home_. Could I be the raven, do you think?”

Blood rushes past his ears once the words leave him. To acknowledge the relationship they have shared with words is bold, very bold indeed. Hopefully she doesn’t mind that he’s done so on their first day together, with such a large party so close behind them. He glances at her to try and catch her reaction. 

It is not what he expects. She tilts her head a little, a question, with the slightest hint of a frown at her brow. “I’m sorry?” 

Perhaps it was too rash of him to speak with so many people around. Harry flushes again. “The raven?” He lowers his voice a bit, so he doesn’t do any more damage. “From your letters.”

He watches as she takes a deep breath, her chest rising with the movement. Something about her seems stiller than it had been, mere moments before. “My letters?” 

It is abundantly clear now that Harry has misspoken. He can’t take it back, though, what’s said is said. All he can do is explain himself and do it better than he has been so far. Anxious, words rush from him. 

“As you said, this whole _arrangement_ , it’s a lot to handle. And, of course, I'm happy to be here with you, but knowing you might — well. Your writing to me gave me hope for our marriage. I feel as if the greatest hurdle has passed. Are you alright? I hope this isn’t too much.” 

It is too much. He knows that already. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it. 

She’s not looking at him anymore. As soon as he’d mentioned his hope for them, she’d glanced at the ground. She keeps looking down for a moment, seemingly gathering herself, before looking back up. The stiff straightness of her back has returned. 

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just surprised.” 

“Surprised?” 

She nods. “Yes. That you found so much solace in one letter.” 

Harry stares at her. Something in his chest drops a little, an instinct telling him something bad is happening, but unable to identify exactly what. He swallows. “One?” 

She nods. She doesn’t look surprised by his question. In fact, it turns her face a little harder, as if she’d been expecting him to question it. “Yes.” She is resolute, daring him to challenge her. “The one I sent you, when you asked that we write to each other.” 

Harry’s chest goes terribly tight. A part of him already suspects what her line of questioning means. He’s sure, by the look on her face, that she’s drawn a similar conclusion. 

He tries, a last time. “I suppose I was referring to the letters you sent after the first. They were what allowed me to really know you.” 

Now, she looks at him as if he’s a challenger on a battlefield. His heart sinks. 

“Prince Harry,” her voice is cool, measured. The same voice she’d used to greet him on the stairs. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I didn’t send any other letters.” 

His knees feel weak. In an instant, every word Harry has ever put to paper sings through his head. Declarations, promises, vows. All made to his future wife but given to — to who? 

“But I have them.” He tries to keep his voice steady, but even he hears when he fails. “I brought them with me.” 

“Well.” She isn’t made of stone. Pink stains her cheeks, and a small part of Harry wants to reassure her. He can’t though, he wouldn’t even know how. She is a stranger to him. “That’s all well and good, save for the fact that I didn’t write you anything. I just — I was too young when you wrote me. I wasn’t ready.” 

Harry isn’t a fool. He knows what this means. He is desperate, though. 

“But you’ve been writing.” 

“I’m sorry, Prince Harry, but I haven’t.” He can’t read her face, but he’s sure he can see pity in her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve been corresponding with someone else.”

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	2. Chapter 2

♚

Louis still has the first letter that Prince Harry ever sent. 

He has them all, actually, but the first he keeps separate from the rest. There’s something about it that captures Louis, always drawing his focus back. The optimism there, and the bravery, the willingness to be the first to reach out. All of those things were written into the letter as if they were Harry’s words themselves. It’s honest, too. Harry was as scared as Lottie was, but he was prepared to share that with her. All in the hope that one day, they might share that burden together. 

Louis had tried to convince Lottie to reply. He’d spent months trying to explain, trying to make her see what he could. He understands now, with the wisdom of time and hindsight, why she couldn’t. She was young, so young, and afraid of the immovable certainty her future posed. Louis had relented, finally, when she asked him to reply with her refusal. He’d agreed to write it for her, and he’d intended to do exactly as she’d asked. He’d sat at his writing desk, all those years ago, and gathered himself to tell Prince Harry no. 

But he couldn’t. How could he look at an olive branch such as this and destroy it? 

It was wrong of him to pretend. He’d known that when he began to write, when he finished the letter and folded it, and when he closed it with his family seal. He knew it every time he received another of Harry’s responses and returned one of his own, signed with his sister’s name. 

He hadn’t stopped, though. God would certainly judge him for that.

But for now? It isn’t God that Louis has to worry about. 

“You wrote to him?”

Lottie’s angry. She’s angrier than Louis thinks he’s ever seen her. There’s a quietness to it where Louis had expected she might scream. This is worse, he realises. 

“Lottie—”

She cuts him off, sharp. “Don’t — don’t placate me, Louis. Answer the question. Did you write to him?” 

Louis swallows. It isn’t becoming of a future king to be so afraid of his sister, but then again, it isn’t becoming to lie to her, either. “Yes.” 

She breathes harshly through her nose. His gaze flicks up, focusing on the ceiling, and her jaw hardens. “What were you thinking?” 

Louis winces. Of course, her first question is the most impossible to answer. There was no thinking, no planning or forethought. He’d simply felt something and been consumed by it. There had been nothing else. Only instinct. Foolish instinct. 

He grasps for some way to tell her this, but he thinks for too long. 

Too quickly, she’s asking him something else. “How could you?” 

Louis ducks his head. He backs a little further into his room, but Lottie doesn’t give him any space. She follows him, crowding him. God, Foley House is so small. 

“You asked me to.” It’s the wrong thing to say, and Louis knows it the second it escapes him. 

Lottie gapes at him. “I asked you to reply to one letter, Louis.” And there, her voice is growing louder now. “One!” 

The only benefit to her finally raising her voice is that a spark of defensiveness flares in Louis’ chest. Replying to Harry, telling him he shouldn’t have written at all, it would have been the wrong choice. Louis knows that. It’s one of the only things that he truly _knows._

“What, did you think that he’d stop sending them?” 

“Yes! That’s exactly what I thought because I asked you to tell him to stop writing.” 

Louis scoffs. It’s — it’s so much easier for her to say that when she didn’t have to be the one to do it. When she didn’t spare any thought to the consequences of shunning her future husband. 

“You were too young to make a decision like that.” She’d been fifteen when the first letter had arrived. What fifteen year old should be at the helm of political decisions like this one? 

“He was writing to me!” 

Louis shakes his head. “He’s going to be your husband. Do you really think that turning him away was the right choice?” 

She steps forward, getting close to him, her eyes fierce. “Whatever it was, it was mine. My decision, Louis.” 

She’s right. Louis knows she’s right. If anyone else had stripped her of her power the way that he had, he’d be livid. He’d want their heads. 

He swallows, a thickness suddenly in his throat. He softens his voice as he nods. “I know. I’m, I’m sorry. But I didn’t want to abandon the potential for you to have a — a friendship with him.”

“A friendship.” Lottie’s voice turns quiet too, but no less incredulous. “He’s — Christ, Louis. He talked about those letters like they were…” She shakes her head, seemingly searching for the words. “They mean something to him, Louis.” 

The first letter Harry ever sent sits at the bottom of Louis’ personal chest. It’s been folded there ever since they received it, and it comes with Louis wherever he goes. 

For the first time since she entered his rooms, Louis looks at his sister. Properly, without avoiding her eye. “Um,” he begins. “That’s good, isn’t it? Don’t you want to mean something to your husband?” 

She doesn’t look very angry anymore. Instead, she looks defeated, and it makes Louis wish she was screaming at him again. Her voice stays soft. “It’s not me, Louis.” 

There’s a hollowness in Louis’ chest. He’d known — he’d known from the beginning that he was doing the wrong thing. He ought to have known it would catch up to him one day. Desperate, he claws for a way to fix it. “He thinks it is.” 

But Lottie’s already shaking her head. “You’ve been writing to him for years, Louis. Did you think he wasn’t going to notice that I’m a completely different person?” 

“He may not!” 

She laughs, dry and breathless. “He already has, you idiot.” 

Louis’ head jerks up. “What? How?” 

She shakes her head, looking away from him. With her arms wrapped across her chest, she walks slowly to the small window in the corner of Louis’ room. It’s raining again, and the water spatters inside and onto the stone. Onto the hem of her fine dress. 

“He asked about poetry, Louis. You know I have no idea about that stuff.” 

“You couldn’t have just made it up?” 

“He didn’t just make a casual comment, Louis. He quoted it. He quoted it like I should know what it meant.” 

There’s a chair in the corner of the room. Louis lets himself sink into it now. “Oh.” 

He’s being impossibly unfair to her. It isn’t her responsibility to lie to Prince Harry, especially on his behalf. And he shouldn’t be pretending any of this was for her benefit anyway. Even if it had begun as the simple taking of an olive branch, it had changed in the years since. They both knew it. 

Louis wonders which poem Harry mentioned. 

He clears his throat. “Does he, uh?” He knows what he wants to ask, but he can’t quite force the words. “Does he—?” 

Lottie knows him too well to wait. “Does he know that he’s been writing to a complete stranger all this time?” 

Louis nods, brittle. 

“Yes. He certainly knows that it wasn’t me.” 

“Right.” 

Lottie moves past the window, stepping out of reach of the rain and onto the small nearby carpet. Once there, she leans against the dry stone wall. “What did you even write, Louis?” 

She doesn’t want to know. Louis doesn’t think he can say it out loud. 

She lets her head bump backwards, sighing. “The way he looked at me. The disappointment. I can’t describe it.”

Louis drops his head into his hands. “They’re just letters.” 

“Maybe to you,” Lottie says sharply. “But not to him. When he realised that I — Louis. He was hurt.” 

Louis glances up at her. She’s watching him, stony and determined. He feels entirely cowed under her stare. “I know,” he says weakly. 

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t. You didn’t see him.” 

That’s true enough. Louis thinks he can imagine it though. He’s only seen Harry’s face once, up close. It was the most expressive face that Louis’ ever seen. When they’d spoken, it had been the picture of bewilderment. Louis has never been a very subtle person, and he’d been even less subtle in Harry’s rooms. He hadn’t been able to help himself, though. 

He’d hoped to learn about Harry without the added eyes of the court and Harry’s advisors. There was so much to learn about a man from the way they treated their servants, and from the way they took on new information. Harry, confused though he may have been, had been polite, even welcoming. All this while certainly suspecting Louis of being a spy. 

Louis doesn’t know what hurt would look like on that same face. He doesn’t want to imagine.

“I know that I’ve made no secret about my feelings for this wedding,” Lottie says, “but I have resigned myself to it. Or I had. I understood that my marriage would be born of political alliance and nothing else. But now it’s full of resentment and embarrassment, on both our parts. What kind of marriage will that be, Louis?” 

Louis can hardly breathe. “I’m sorry. I thought. I was trying to help.” 

Lottie shakes her head. “Well, you didn’t. You hurt him, Louis. And you made me complicit in it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says again. 

“Don’t be sorry. Just fix it.” 

♚

Louis leaves Foley House just after midnight. Liam comes with him, no longer responsible for Harry’s movements. Now that he’s met Lottie, Harry will be travelling with her, as a combined party. They’ll both be welcomed to Haverhill the day after tomorrow, with a banquet that Louis’ mother has been organising for months now. 

Louis would quite like to ride in the other direction. 

“Surely he wasn’t so awful to you,” Liam says as they ride. “I found him to be rather pleasant.” 

Louis hasn’t told Liam about the letters and has absolutely no intention of doing so. As such, and without an explanation, Liam has come to his own conclusions about Louis’ sour mood. He’d been an essential part of the plan for Louis to meet Harry in disguise, which he has clearly assumed went terribly wrong. 

“What did he say to you?” 

Louis sighs. “He didn’t say anything, Liam. He didn’t do anything. He was perfectly kind.” 

It’s far too dark for Louis to see Liam’s face, but he can imagine the frown there. Liam feels things with his entire body, so it’s always easy to read him from his tone. “Well, what is it then?” 

Louis adjusts his grip on the reins. It’s too dangerous to ride fast without any light on their path, so they’re keeping the horses at a walking pace. “It’s hard to explain.” 

He hears Liam snort. “Well, you’re in luck. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us and not much else to talk about.” 

If they were with anyone else, Liam wouldn’t dare speak to Louis like this. He’s impossibly formal under prying eyes. Louis always looks forward to the times when they’re able to simply be old friends, rather than an Earl and a Prince. 

Even as close as they are, Louis has no idea how to explain. He can’t talk about the letters, not even to Liam. 

Liam seems to see through Louis’ hesitance. 

“It’s a big change, the Prince arriving,” Liam says slowly. “And it must be hard to know that Princess Charlotte’s life is about to change so dramatically. I know I felt torn when Ruth was wed. But it ended well, she’s very happy now. And Prince Harry seems very honourable. He’ll treat her well if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

In some of their earliest correspondences, Louis had mentioned to Harry his — or Charlotte’s — reluctance to see a path laid out so straight ahead of her. Though he couldn’t say it with exactly the same words, Louis’ always felt terrified of the life his sisters are trapped in. His mother has always done her best for them, but even she is caught in the trappings of responsibility. 

It is always, _always_ about responsibility. Their responsibility to the country and their people, and it’s a burden that few others can ever understand. 

But Harry did. He’d understood when Louis had shared his fears. He’d even gone so far as to share his own. 

Louis is not at all worried that Harry will be a bad husband, no matter how dismayed he may be over the letters that weren’t Lottie’s. 

“That’s not it,” he tells Liam. “I know he’s a good man.” 

“You do?” 

Louis nods, even though he knows Liam can’t see him. “Yes. He showed me that well enough when I spoke to him.” 

“How?” 

For the thousandth time in just a few hours, Louis thinks back to the short time he’d spent with Harry. Initially, he’d taken in only the man himself. His height, the broadness at his shoulders, the green of his eyes — these things hadn’t been so surprising. Louis had heard often of Prince Harry’s handsomeness. No, what had taken Louis off guard was the way that Harry carried himself. Something about the way that he spoke, the way that he’d deferred to Liam but remained entirely in control of his own party, commanding respect without demanding it. There was a gentleness to him, but something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t to be underestimated. 

In the moment, Louis had wanted to sit with him for hours. Years, if that was what it took to unravel this man’s puzzle. 

He can’t say that to Liam, though. 

“He was respectful of Ryde’s traditions when I told them to him. He even made adjustments for them.” Simply listening to the word of a servant, and choosing to act on it, was a sign itself. There aren’t so many people in Ryde who would do the same for someone they deemed lesser. “And he spoke respectfully to me, even though I know well enough that he didn’t trust me.” 

Liam hums a noise, approving. “He knew you weren’t a servant, then?” 

Louis has never been good at subterfuge. He’s a crown prince, not a spy. Harry had seen through him almost immediately. “Absolutely. Which shows he’s smart, as well.” 

Harry had proved his intelligence in his letters a thousand times to Louis. He’d spoken at length about his studies, the time he spent with his mother and his sister discussing policy and tactics. It had been a pleasure for Louis to see it for himself. 

“Well, that’s good then. He’ll be a good match for Princess Charlotte.” 

He would be. Lottie could do far worse than a clever husband. Especially one who had already proved himself to also be kind. Guilt swirls in Louis’ stomach, though. He had only proved that to Louis, under pretence. Would he still be kind to Lottie after Louis’ deception? 

Louis takes a deep breath. “Yes, I think he will.” 

He had to trust in the man he’d spoken to for three years. He had to trust that Harry was a better man than Louis was. 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

It’s a long ride home, and Louis doesn’t want to spend it all battling inside his head. He can’t tell Liam everything, of course. But he can share a little. “It’s. I spoke with Charlotte. She’s, uh.” Angry, hurt, betrayed. All those things at once? “She’s upset with me.” 

“What did you do?” 

Ordinarily, Louis might be indignant that Liam would so quickly assume the worst of him. He can’t bring himself to fight now. Liam’s assumption is resolutely correct. 

“I lied to her.” 

Liam, bless him, stays direct. “Why?” 

Why, why, why. It’s been running through Louis’ head for hours. Why did he write to Prince Harry in the first place, why did he keep writing for so many years? Why didn’t he think about the fallout, the potential consequences for chasing the impulse to know Harry better? 

“I did something,” Louis says. It’s not much, but it’s the best he can offer. “And I did it in her name.” He thinks for a moment, and Liam lets him. Between them, the only sound is the touch of hooves on the dirt. “I told myself it was for her, but it wasn’t. It was for me.” 

It was selfish. It’s one of the only answers that Louis’ been able to settle on. He was selfish, he didn’t think, and it’s brought them here. 

Liam stays silent for a little while longer. He’s not an impulsive man. He always seems to measure everything, to carefully weigh all potential options before making a choice. Louis’ never been envious of that, until now. 

“I see,” Liam says finally. “Did you apologise?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well. It’s clear that you know you did the wrong thing. Princess Charlotte will be able to see that as well as I can.” 

Louis can only hope. He won’t see her again until the banquet, and when he does it will be with Prince Harry in tow. Making amends with his sister feels impossible enough as it is. How can he even hope to approach Harry and do the same? 

“Is there anything else you could do to fix it?” Liam asks. 

Louis sighs and shakes his head in the darkness. “It’s a long journey home, Liam. I’ll have to think of something.” 

♚

In the summer, before Prince Harry was due to set sail, Louis sent him a letter. He can’t remember everything that he said, not word for word. He and Prince Harry have sent so many letters, discussed so many things, that it’s now difficult to remember the exact contents of each individual correspondence. 

One section, though, Louis can remember by heart. 

_It was quite a realisation, to find that I can no longer remember what it was to live a life without your letters. It occurs to me now that my happiness is to know you._

He didn’t know at the time what he was declaring. It had felt so easy to put the words down, to send the letter the way he always did. The gravity of it all only hit him nights later, waking him from his sleep. 

What a thing; to tell someone you love them before you even know it yourself. 

♚

They arrive at the castle right after dawn. It’s perfect timing in some ways — they get to see the sun crest over the horizon, illuminating the white castle in a breathtaking glow that makes Louis truly proud to call this city his home — but irritating in others. For one, the entire castle is waking up right when Louis wants to crawl into bed. A thousand tasks already fill his day. He needs to report back to his mother, share with her his first impression of Charlotte’s fiance, which will be difficult considering he has no idea what to say. He doesn’t know how Harry will behave, now that he knows Charlotte isn’t the author of the letters. Louis has no doubts that Harry will be able to remain diplomatic — but the Harry he knows is only the Harry from his letters. What he might do in person, how he might look angry, remains to be seen. 

Louis leaves Liam at the stables, a stablehand quick to relieve Louis of his reins. Liam looks just as tired as Louis feels, and only offers a casual wave to say goodbye. In the last few hours of their journey, they’d fallen silent, content to focus on remaining awake rather than struggling with a conversation. It gave Louis ample time to think about Charlotte, and about Harry, and how he could possibly fix this mess he’s made. 

He’s not made any progress at all. Defeat tinges his exhaustion, and he wants nothing more than to shut his eyes and hide from it all. 

His brain doesn’t quieten though. 

When he gets to his rooms, a bath is ready and waiting for him. He rests his eyes there for a short while, as hot water is poured over his back. It’s only a short respite, though. Within the half-hour, he is dressed again, this time in clothes for court. He says hello to his sisters at the breakfast table. Phoebe and Daisy are both wide awake, anxious for news about the foreign Prince, and gleeful when Louis admits that ‘ _Yes, I suppose you could say that he’s handsome.’_

An understatement if ever there was one. 

When their mother joins them, Louis relays the simplest report he can. “Prince Harry is intelligent and kind, and seems only a little overwhelmed by Ryde.” They won’t begrudge him for that. Louis can only imagine how scared Charlotte would be if she’d been sent to Andras for this match, rather than the other way around. “He seems a very suitable match for Lottie.”

Dread tugs at his chest as he says it, but he forces himself to ignore it, refusing to acknowledge the feeling. Johannah seems pleased enough with his assessment and reaches across the table to settle her hand over Louis’. 

“Thank you for going to see him.” 

She says it as if it were her idea. It hadn’t been — Louis had planned the deception all on his own. He’s always felt viciously defensive of Lottie, and Phoebe and Daisy of course. It had made it easy to convince them that his deception was a good idea. He needed to be sure that Prince Harry of Andras was a good man. 

Yet another lie to add to his retinue. That had been part of it, but only part. The rest had been selfishness. A yearning to meet Harry and not be met in return. 

To be thanked for that is just a little too awful for Louis to cope, so he ignores it as smoothly as he can. He squeezes his mother’s hand, and asks, “How are the wedding preparations coming along?” 

She pulls away so that she can continue eating. Louis reaches across the table and takes one of the warmly baked rolls that have just been delivered. 

“They’re going well.” She lifts her fork to her mouth and chews thoughtfully for a moment. “There have been a few hiccups, but that’s to be expected when organising a wedding of this scale. And of course, the focus is still on the banquet. Once that is done, we’ll be able to devote more attention to the wedding itself.” 

The banquet is Haverhill’s way of formally welcoming Harry to the city. He’ll be introduced to the Queen, and the court, and recognised as a future member of the Tomlinson family. They’ve been planning for months, with decorations and food imported from all over the country to truly show Harry what Ryde can provide. Louis himself will be helping source the dinner. They’re to ride out before dawn tomorrow to hunt for boar, ideally one large enough to impress the Andrans. 

“I’m looking forward to the hunt tomorrow,” Louis says. He relishes any opportunity to ride out into the hills. Despite its beauty, Haverhill can feel a little restrictive on occasion. He’s always felt less observed outside of the castle’s confines — just a little freer. 

“I’m glad.” As happy as it makes him, Johannah always gets a little anxious when Louis rides out. “Please be careful.” 

“Always,” Louis says. That feels like a lie too. Everything he’s done the past few days has been the opposite — clumsy, messy, chaotic. 

He finishes his breakfast just in time to accompany his mother to her daily meeting with her advisors. He’s been attending with her for years now — since he was about twelve or thirteen. It will be his job one day, so his mother had tried to prepare him as early as possible without robbing him entirely of a childhood. Some of her advisors thought it should be earlier, others later. Some still saw him as a hindrance, and some spoke more to him than towards Johannah. That was the first thing Louis learnt from them. As smart and clever as they were, they could never be trusted outright. Everyone had their own motive, after all. 

When they enter, most of Johannah’s advisors are already seated. They stand as soon as they see Louis and his mother. The one standing nearest to them is Jakob. He has always fawned over Johannah and turned his nose up at Louis. Louis’ grown used to it. 

He bows deeply when Johannah comes to the empty chair beside him. “Your Majesty, welcome.” 

Louis moves around his mother to the only other empty chair remaining, at her right-hand side. 

“Thank you, Jakob,” Johannah says. She sits down and leans forward, all business, a wary eye taking in the entire table. “Do you have anything new for me today?” 

The last meeting Louis had attended had been before his trip to Kingscliff Abbey. They’d spent almost the entirety of the meeting talking about the movements of Harry’s ship, the trouble they’d had with the storms and their certainty that this time the ship would be able to land. According to his mother, he hadn’t missed much in the meetings since. 

A woman to Louis’ right, stands and nods. “There is, Your Majesty.” Her name is Ruben. She’s a little younger than the rest of Johannah’s advisors, although she still has a good ten years on Louis. She’s one of Louis’ favourites.

Jakob clears his throat. “I must disagree, Your Majesty. What we have heard is nothing more than rumour. There is no need to concern yourself with idle gossip.” 

There’s one of the reasons Louis dislikes Jakob so much. Even with Johannah, he has a condescending way about him. As if he knows exactly what should and shouldn’t concern them, and any questioning of his judgement must be born of some sort of pathetic naivete. It’s insulting, and though Louis doesn’t mind so much when it’s directed at him, irritation flares in him to see it directed at his mother. 

Of course, Johannah has been doing this for a long time. 

She regards Jakob cooly, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. “Why don’t you tell me, and I will make that judgement for myself?” 

Jakob purses his lips, but nods and sits back down. Johannah turns her attention to Ruben, who does a masterful job at not looking too smug. 

“There seems to be some sort of movement in Sicea,” she reports. Sicea is Ryde’s neighbour to the north, and while they’ve always been a close ally to them, they’re never reluctant to cause trouble across the seas. “My man has seen at least ten ships launched in the last three days.” 

Louis frowns. “Only ten?” 

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

“That seems to be a normal amount to me.” Johannah picks up Louis’ line of questions almost immediately, noticing the same thing that he has. “How many do we launch a day?” 

Jakob leans forward again. He doesn’t stand this time, which makes Louis grit his teeth, but there isn’t anything to really say. They’re not required to stand when they speak, but they generally do out of respect. “Two or three, Your Majesty, which is exactly why I said that you ought not worry yourself — ”

Ruben cuts Jakob off. It’s against protocol, but Louis doesn’t mind it in this case. “Sicea has far less trade by sea than we do, Your Majesty. They use the river route maybe once or twice a month, mostly in their dealings with countries to the west. Ten in three days is extremely unusual, I assure you.” 

If that’s true, then she’s very right to have raised the alarm. Sicea has always been rich in resources — it’s lush in the same way Ryde is, but plagued by less rain which makes growing crops considerably easier there. Because they can grow almost everything they need, they rarely import food or goods from western countries like Redrun, Andras, or Erinea. The only thing they ever needed to import over the water was iron mined in Andras. Otherwise, they came to Ryde or the southern countries.

“I see,” Johannah says. “Does your man know the reason for the launching of these ships?” 

Ruben shakes her head. “Not yet, Your Majesty. I have him searching for the cause as we speak.” 

Louis clears his throat, thinking for a moment. “Surely if it’s so unusual, then the people in Sicea are asking the same questions. Has the King given an official reason?”

“The King has said they are trade ships, headed for Erinea.” 

“And what cause do we have to distrust this?” Johannah asks. 

“As I said, Your Majesty, it’s simply the sheer volume of the ships they’re sending out. The route to Erinea from Sicea follows narrow rivers almost the entire way. Even two or three ships along the path would find themselves out of room to move. Ten is out of the question. And my man says the launches show no signs of stopping, so we can expect the number to rise.” 

“I understand.” The room falls silent for a moment as Johannah considers all that’s been said. She nods slowly, thinking to herself, and then turns to Louis. “What do you think we should do?” 

Louis can see in his periphery the way that this bothers Jakob and a couple of the men to his left. He pushes aside his annoyance at this and forces himself to think politically. 

“We keep an eye on it,” he decides. “We can’t very well accuse King Edoard of something untoward when we have no idea what it might be.” 

In this room, Johannah is the Queen, not Louis’ mother. So she keeps her face straight and nods, but Louis can see in her eyes that she’s pleased. 

“Very good.” She looks back to Ruben. “Let me know when your man has more information and we’ll decide if any action is warranted on our part.” 

Ruben nods her head in another bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

There isn’t anything else new to discuss, after that. Jakob speaks briefly to a few skirmishes in the lower town, but within minutes they break the meeting and head their own ways. Louis says goodbye to his mother and heads to his next task of the day — ensuring the great hall is set up exactly the right way for the banquet tomorrow night. The hours of the day drag, but finally when the sun sets Louis is able to excuse himself and drag himself to his rooms. He doesn’t notice when he falls asleep, and when he wakes the next morning he can barely remember sleeping at all. 

Liam joins him for the hunt, along with thirty of Louis’ men. It’s exhilarating to ride again, properly this time, at a canter over the hills. The hunt itself is led more by their men than by Louis or Liam themselves. They enjoy hunting, of course, but neither of them boasts to be the best hunter among the group. With so much riding on bringing a boar home, it’s better to step back and let the experts take the reins. They find a large boar just before noon and chase it for almost two hours. By the time the hunt is finally done, Louis realises their return to the castle may well coincide with the arrival of Lottie’s party — Harry in tow. 

The thought makes his stomach turn. This time, when he meets Harry formally, Harry will be meeting him right back. He’ll see Louis as the Crown Prince of Ryde, no longer a faceless spy from the Abbey’s rooms. 

Wondering what Harry will think has plagued him for days now, but he can only run through the possibilities so many times. Harry will hate him, that much is almost certain already. At this point, though, it’s just another betrayal to add to the list. 

Blessedly, they make it back to the castle just in time to see Lottie’s party cresting the far hill. It will take them at least a few more hours to make it to Haverhill. It’s a brief respite, the last chance Louis has to hide away before the mess he’s made takes the centre stage. 

He welcomes it. He heads for his rooms. He needs to wash after the hunt, but it also conveniently hides him away from the excitement of the court. They’re all desperately anxious to see the foreign prince and to see him and Lottie together. Lottie is the first of Johannah’s children to wed, and it’s apparently so thrilling that the entire city seems to buzz. 

He doesn’t escape entirely unscathed. As he bathes, trying his best to ignore the outside world, his servants whisper to one another. 

“He’s much taller than I thought he would be,” one lady whispers to another as she prepares Louis’ dress clothes. 

The other woman nods. She’s sewing, quickly repairing one of the buttons on Louis’ formal jacket. It’s been a while since he wore it last and he only discovered the looseness of the buttons at the collar this afternoon. “And did you see how he helped the Princess from her carriage. What a gentleman!” 

On the whole, Louis feels glad when the servants speak freely around him. It means they trust him to some extent, and that they don’t fear him. Still, he doesn’t want to listen to this. 

He takes a deep breath and ducks his head under the bathwater. 

There. Much better. 

♚

“Christ,” Liam says, rushing to Louis’ side as soon as he catches sight of him. “What the hell did you do?” 

Louis winces. He’d known this banquet would be difficult to get through, but he hadn’t thought he’d be in trouble this early. And certainly not from Liam. “What do you mean?” 

Liam ducks his head, leaning far too close to whisper, “Prince Harry. I’ve just seen him outside and he looks miserable.” Harry and his party will have to wait in the courtyard outside the Great Hall until Louis and Johannah are inside. “And Princess Charlotte doesn’t look much better.” 

Guilt pools heavy in Louis’ stomach. “Miserable?” 

“Well,” Liam sighs. “Not _miserable,_ maybe. But definitely less happy than he was when we last saw him. He’s looking at the castle as if it’s his enemy.”

It’s not surprising, not really. If Louis, and Haverhill by extension, has earned anything from Harry, it’s distrust. 

“Look,” Louis takes a deep breath. “I’m going to fix it, okay?” 

Liam shoots him a very significant look. “I think you’d better, Louis.” 

He looks so serious, so dour, that Louis can’t stand it. He shoots Liam a distracted nod and flees, tugging nervously on the hem of his jacket as he does so. He feels about ready to crawl out of his skin.

The entire hall has been set up to keep the main part of the room empty, framed on all sides by long bench tables. The court will line the tables at the east and west sides of the hall, with Louis and his family at the last table, elevated along the north wall. Liam will enter the room with the crowds, amongst all the other earls and dukes and duchesses who’ve come to see Harry’s arrival. Charlotte, Daisy and Phoebe will take their seats at the table at the same time as the court. Johannah and Louis won’t enter until last when everyone else is ready in their places. 

He moves towards the north door, where he knows Phoebe and Daisy will be readying themselves to enter. But he turns the corner, and instead of the twins, the first person he sees is — 

“Lottie,” he says, startled. He reaches for her entirely out of instinct and is hurt when she quickly recoils. 

She doesn’t look at him, chooses instead to focus on the doorway. “I’d really prefer not to speak to you right now.” 

She leaves without another word, stalking inside and towards her seat. 

“Damnit,” Louis hisses under his breath. 

He’s given a second to stew in self-pity before Phoebe and Daisy are at his side. They both look lovely, Phoebe wearing a rich emerald colour and Daisy in a soft periwinkle blue. They’re grinning, just as excited today as they have been the last few months. Ever since word came that Harry had set sail from Andras, they’d glowed. 

“Oh, Louis!” Phoebe leans forward to bump her cheek against Louis’, a slightly informal greeting considering their surroundings. “Do you like our dresses?” 

“I do. You both look beautiful.” 

“Do you think Prince Harry will like them?” Daisy asks as she greets Louis in the same way. 

“Uh, I’m not really sure.” Louis tries his best to laugh casually. It comes out quite forced. “Do you want him to? He’s your sister’s fiance, after all.” 

Christ, he’s a hypocrite. 

The twins shoot him a look, one that says they think he’s being impossibly stupid. “Well, of course!” Daisy says. “Even if he does marry Charlotte, he’s probably got hundreds of friends who are lords and princes. Maybe he’ll write to them about us!” 

It’s not the silliest of ideas, but Louis’ too caught up on an earlier part of their sentence to give them any validation. “If?” he echoes warily. “There’s no if about it, girls. Charlotte is marrying him.” 

If he hadn’t known them all their lives, he might have missed the quick glance they share. It’s over in a second, but what it could possibly mean is entirely beyond Louis’ comprehension right now. 

“We know that,” Phoebe reassures him.

“Well good,” he says. There’s no time to quiz them. A quick glance inside shows him that everyone is almost in their seats. In a few minutes, the trumpets will begin to play and he’ll be expected to enter through the main doors, right behind his mother. “Make sure you remember it. Now go find your seats.” 

As soon as he’s seen them inside, he turns and heads back in the direction of the main doors. As he’d expected, the corridor leading to the entryway — which had previously been teaming with excitable courtiers — is now empty save for his mother and a few of her advisors. 

“Louis!” Johannah says when she turns and sees him. “The hunt went well?” 

He rushes over to her, hoping the thundering of his heart isn’t obvious. She’s always been able to read him, like no one else he’s ever met. He just stops himself from tugging at his sleeve again. “Yes, very.” 

She smiles, serene. She seems impossibly calm, for someone who’s about to meet the man who’ll marry her daughter. “I’m glad.” She leans in close, like a conspirator, and offers him a little waggle of her eyebrows. “I noticed the Prince outside, you know. He’s very tall, isn’t he?” 

Louis catches himself before he laughs. It’s probably the closest she’ll come to say that she’s impressed by Harry’s looks. “Uh, yes?” 

Her smile drops quickly though, when she says, “Charlotte isn’t herself, though. Will you check on her, when you have a moment? I don’t like to see her so quiet.” 

Louis thinks back to their latest exchange, only minutes ago. He always used to be the person to go to, if Lottie needed cheering up. Now, he’s surely the worst person for the job. 

He can’t tell his mother that, though. 

“I will.” 

She pats him on the shoulder. “Good, good.” She glances around, watching as the servant's bustle around them. “I think everything will be ready shortly.” 

She’s right. In just a few moments, the servants have finished, and Johannah takes her place right before the doors. Louis steps up and to her side, offering her his arm. She takes it right as the trumpets begin their music, and the large oak doors swing slowly open. 

This part, Louis has done a thousand times. Walking into the grand hall in front of their court is another thing he’s been taught to do since he was young. It feels different this time. He feels acutely aware of each pair of eyes on him, and more vulnerable under their gaze than he has in a long time. There is no forgetting the party that waits just metres away, in the nearby courtyard, ready to come as soon as they’re called. Louis’ been dreading this moment for days. Now that it’s finally arrived, all his nervousness feels entirely justified. 

They walk slowly to the front table. He meets Lottie’s gaze and holds it. As helpless as he is at this moment, caught up in the middle of a mess of his own making, it feels like the only thing he can do. Look at his sister and hope she can see how sorry he is. 

She doesn’t look away. That’s a good sign, at least. 

Finally, they reach their seats. Theirs are two of three empty seats that remain along the north wall. His mother's is in the middle. Her throne is the largest, befitting only of the Queen. Louis’ seat is to the left of hers, a little smaller, but large enough to indicate that one day he’ll be the one this court looks to. Phoebe sits in the seat beside his, with Daisy another seat down. On the other side of Johannah’s throne is the seat intended for Harry. Lottie sits on its other side. 

Johannah drops his arm so that they can both turn around and face their court. They don’t take their seats straight away though. First, his mother has to speak. 

“Welcome, everyone.” She begins with a smile. “Tonight is a celebration first and foremost for my daughter, Princess Charlotte, who’s upcoming nuptials are a cause for great joy in our country.” She turns and gestures towards where Lottie is sitting. Lottie bows her head then shoots the court the same smile that Johannah wears. “Tonight, I’d like nothing more than for you to celebrate with us. I am also anxious to introduce you to my future son-in-law, who has travelled a long way these past few months to be here with us.” 

A tittering spreads through the crowd, those same excited whispers making a quick return. Johannah seems happy to hear it; as if the court’s enthusiasm is reassurance that the marriage is a good choice for Ryde. 

“The marriage will not only unite two people but two countries. Because of this, I invite you to think of this evening as a new beginning for Ryde, and look optimistically towards the possibility of a grand future for all of us.” 

She falls quiet for long enough that the court recognises that she’s finished speaking. They clap, and she tilts her head just a little, the sign that the servant closest to the door has been waiting for. He slips outside, and Louis’ stomach clenches. Harry will be with them in seconds. 

He sits when his mother does, and keeps his hands on his lap. He gives himself a moment, one moment only, to steel himself. He clenches his hand into a fist, takes a deep breath and forces himself to release it. He’s a prince, born into a world of politics and lies. This isn’t the first time he’s had to act while sitting on his throne, and it won’t be the last. 

The doors open again, and Louis’ time is up. 

Harry walks in first, with his man — Sir Niall Horan — a close step behind. He’s wearing much grander clothes than he had been at Kingscliff, a coat made of deep blue hues and trimmed with golden thread. He walks like a prince, the same way that he had on the beach. If it weren’t for Liam’s earlier assessment, Louis would think that Harry was entirely at ease. 

He has these seconds to take Harry in while Harry looks at his mother. When Harry’s eyes finally flick over and meet Louis’, Louis’ blood seems to freeze. 

Harry is an expressive man. Louis knew that from his letters, but he had no hope of knowing how much of that would translate on the man’s face. He’d seen hints of it at the Abbey, the way Harry looked when he was suspicious, when he was thoughtful, but nothing like this. 

First, Louis sees surprise. Just a flash of it, barely there before it’s replaced by dawning realisation. Louis can see the moment Harry places him, recognising him as the spy from his rooms. But that look goes quickly, too. Then there is anger. It’s in the tiniest twitch of his eye, the strengthening of the muscle at his jaw. It’s controlled, hidden, but impossible for Louis to miss. 

It’s the anger that remains. Even as he comes to a stop right before them, Louis can still see the traces of it. He wants to look at his mother, see if she’s noticed the same, but he doesn’t dare pull his gaze away from Harry’s. 

It’s Harry who looks away first. The steward who stands to the side of Johannah’s throne steps forward, catching his attention. Loud and clear, so the whole court can hear him, the steward says, “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Johannah the First of Ryde, welcomes you.” 

Johannah nods her head right on cue. It’s a sign for Sir Niall to step forward and make Harry’s own introduction. “May I present His Royal Highness, Prince Harry of Andras.” 

Harry has more titles than that. Louis heard as much when he was introduced to them on the beach. It seems they have dropped them, in deference to Ryde’s much shorter form of titling. It’s a small thing, but it means a lot to Louis that they would do so in respect of his mother’s title. 

“Prince Harry,” Johannah says warmly, the entire court quiet to hear what she’ll say. “Welcome. What a delight it is to have you here after all these years of planning.” 

Harry lowers his head, a slight bow, and smiles. It seems a warm and welcoming thing, but Louis knows better. There’s ice behind Harry’s eyes. “Your Majesty, the delight is all mine.” 

Johannah lifts an arm and gestures to Louis. She doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss. Or, if she has, she doesn’t seem too concerned by it. “Allow me to introduce you to my son, Prince Louis.”

Harry looks at him again. The anger is fading now, but Louis is not reassured by what he sees instead. He watches Harry catalogue everything he sees, searching Louis’ face for something and filing it all away. It makes Louis feel raw, exposed, and he itches to stand from his chair and run from the room. 

“Prince Louis,” Harry nods his head in yet another bow. “I feel as if I know you already.” 

Keeping his face impassive is the only armour Louis has left, so he makes sure he’s as still as stone. He lets the hint of a smirk creep onto his face. He’s always found that the best defence is a good offence, and the worst thing he can do now is let Harry know how unnerved he really feels. 

“I feel the same, Your Highness.” He’s proud when his voice comes out clear and bold. “Welcome to Haverhill.”

Again, Johannah doesn’t react to anything pointedly. If she’s noticed the heavy meaning placed on their words, she gives no indication that it bothers her. She turns a little further, indicating now to the girls. “And my daughters. Of course, you’ve already met Princess Charlotte. These are her sisters, Princess Phoebe and Princess Daisy.” 

Harry nods to them all. He doesn’t offer them any special sort of greeting, but then none of the girls snuck into Harry’s rooms in disguise, so they haven’t really earned one in the same way Louis has. 

“Please,” Johannah says, and Harry turns back to face her. “Have a seat. You’ve travelled a long way to be here today. I think you’ve earned the chance to sit down.” 

Harry nods and does as she says. Niall moves quickly away, taking the seat reserved for him by Liam’s side at the western table. Louis lets himself clench and unclench his hand again. He can’t be sure that Harry isn’t looking, but his hand is hidden well enough by the armrest of his chair that he feels brave enough to try it. It expels some of his useless energy, and he lets out a shaky breath. 

The first moment is done. Now Louis just has to make it through all the rest. 

♚

Harry speaks to Lottie and Johannah as they eat. Louis keeps his focus on Phoebe and Daisy, speaking to them as casually as he can, desperately holding onto his pretence of disinterest. When they’ve finished eating, Johannah motions for the musicians to start playing. When music fills the hall, the courtiers slowly drift into the middle of the room and begin to dance. 

Unfortunately, Phoebe and Daisy are quick to join them, and Johannah’s attention is caught by two members of the court who’ve come over to greet her, leaving Louis remarkably exposed. 

He’s learnt enough about Harry over the years to know he isn’t one to shy away from confrontation. Sure enough, just minutes after Phoebe and Daisy have left, Harry appears and takes Phoebe’s seat. 

Louis forces himself not to react too visibly, although he’s not sure how successful he is. 

Harry doesn’t wait for a hello. “Tell me,” he begins, not even looking at Louis, but keeping his focus on the dancing. “Is your country populated exclusively by liars?” 

It’s about as direct as it comes. 

Louis takes a moment to breathe. “I’m sorry?” Feigning ignorance is his best chance at stalling, even for a second. 

Harry shrugs. It’s impossibly casual. “It’s just that I have to ask. First your sister, and now you. I have to assume your family has been bred for dishonesty.” 

For the first time tonight, Louis’ guilt is swallowed by a hot flash of anger. Harry has every right to be furious with Louis, but he has no reason to quarrel with Louis’ family. His mother has been nothing but welcoming, and Lottie nothing but kind. 

He tries to keep his voice level. “My sister?” 

Harry nods as if it’s obvious. “You concealed yourself in my welcome party, snuck into my rooms and rifled through my things.” Louis twitches a little at that. He’d touched Harry’s clothes, yes, but he hadn’t exactly dug through all of Harry’s belongings. “Surely you’re not surprised that your sister is just as ungallant as you.” 

Another flare of heat sings through Louis. He thinks of how angry Lottie has been on Harry’s behalf, how hurt she’d been by Louis’ actions. To hear Harry call her such things makes his teeth clench. 

“My sister has done nothing to you.” 

Harry’s tone turns condescending. “Oh, your spying does need work. You must know that she deceived me with false letters for years.” 

It’s incomprehensible that Harry could blame Lottie for the letters. And yet here he was, saying that as clear as day. Yes, Louis had used her name as his when he’d written, but surely that meant innocence shone first on her? 

“Of course,” Harry goes on, “it’s like I said. Clearly a family trait. I suppose the next thing I should look for is assassination from Princess Phoebe? Perhaps poison from Princess Daisy?” 

Louis breathes sharply through his nose. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Harry lifts an irreverent brow. “Don’t I? You have proven yourself to be entirely dishonourable, as has your sister. I can only assume the rest of your family is the same.” 

“You know nothing about my family.” Louis’ fists are clenched again. His fingertips digging sharply into his palms are suddenly the only thing keeping his mind clear. 

But Harry is relentless. “And I do not wish to. Just as I do not wish to know you.” 

There is a smirk on his lips now, like he has picked up how angry Louis is and is happy to see it. It’s that, more than anything, that causes something in Louis to snap. 

He feels his blood cool and for the first time, he turns to look directly at Harry. He isn’t that much taller than Louis really, he can see that now that they’re close together. It feels easy to sneer at him. 

“Well, that is a surprise.” His heart thunders. “I thought you just couldn’t wait to touch your skin to mine.” 

It makes Louis feel strong, powerful, to see Harry falter. “What?” 

“Or was it?” Louis pauses, a theatrical moment. “You said your body was crazy with wanting me, isn’t that right?” 

It’s absurd to recall such tender writings and to spit them in Harry’s face. But there’s fire in Louis’ veins, a vicious thing, and he doesn’t relent, even when Harry gapes, and says, “I — you?” 

And there’s that realisation again. This time as Harry realises exactly what Louis is quoting. 

Louis leans close. “Did you really think I would let my sister marry a complete stranger? Did you think we wouldn’t do our own research, that we wouldn’t want to learn everything we could about you? And oh, what I learnt.” 

It’s cruel. It’s so cruel that Louis’ anger evaporates as soon as the words have left him. They hit Harry as if they were a physical blow, leaving him looking winded, wounded. He stares at Louis, void of breath, horror painted clear on his face. 

And suddenly Louis is a coward again. 

He’s spent days, months, terrified of what Harry would think of him when he learnt the truth. He’d run through telling Harry a thousand times in his mind. He’d never thought it would happen this way, though. He never thought that he’d spit the truth in Harry’s face, and hope that it would hurt. 

He needs to get out of here. 

Louis takes a quick breath and stands. “Have a good evening, Prince Harry,” he says. “The party is all for you, after all.” 

Then he flees. 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	3. Chapter 3

♚

It’s raining again. 

It’s cold, it’s raining again, and Harry hates it here. 

Truly, truly _hates_ it. 

It’s been just over a week since the banquet, since he’d met Queen Johannah and her duplicitous son. Harry had retired early to his rooms that night, making polite excuses about tiredness and travel, and stayed there ever since. He wasn’t entirely alone. Niall’s rooms are adjacent to Harry’s, so they’d passed the time much the same as they had on the ship. But card games and chess could only occupy them for so long. 

“Princess Charlotte has sent you a message.” Niall reaches over and moves a pawn as he speaks. Harry can tell that he’s trying to sound casual, as if the invitation is just a normal part of their day. He’s nervous, choosing his words carefully, and it makes Harry’s skin crawl. Niall’s never been careful around him, especially not when they’re on their own. “She’s asked us to join her this afternoon.” 

Harry watches Niall make his move, then pauses to mull over his own. “She has?” 

“Yes. There is a tennis tournament being held today, and she has suggested we accompany her to watch.” 

Harry leans forward to move his knight. He keeps his gaze down, focusing on the pieces. “Tell her thank you, but no. Tell her I’m still feeling fatigued from the trip.” 

Niall waits for a beat, then sighs. “It’s been a week, Harry.” 

Sitting back in his chair, Harry shrugs. “We travelled for months. It seems reasonable that I might need a few weeks to recover.” 

Niall doesn’t make his next move. His attention is entirely on Harry now, frowning. He’s been so cautious that it’s honestly refreshing to see him a little frustrated. Harry’s ready to have this argument. 

“You have recovered, though. You’re awake, you’re well. Well enough to play a thousand games of chess, apparently.” 

Harry’s best attempt at a smile comes out rather dour. “She doesn’t need to know that. It’s your turn.” 

Niall makes no moves towards the board. “You have to leave these rooms at some point.” 

The thing about Harry’s anger is that it comes and goes. It’s furious, it floods him, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He’s never felt so much so futilely. Another wave hits him now, so much so that he has to clench his jaw to make sure he doesn’t lash out at Niall. 

Through grit teeth, he says, “I certainly do not.” 

He watches Niall think a little more, weighing his words again. “I understand that you’ve been disappointed.” 

“Disappointed!” Harry lets out a dry laugh. To hear everything summed up as simple disappointment feels laughable, but he can’t think of anything else to replace it. There may not be just one word to encompass everything he’s felt in the few days since the banquet, or since his conversation with Charlotte in the garden. “Christ, I wish I was only disappointed.” 

He wants to believe the look in Niall’s eye is sympathy, but he can’t. Maybe Niall thinks it is, but the pity is plain for Harry to see. Prince Louis has made Harry pitiful. 

Harry hasn’t told Niall about the letters. It feels too thorough a defeat to admit out loud. He can’t even bring himself to look at the damn things, he feels so ashamed. How could he let himself be fooled so easily?

And the things he _wrote._

“I was supposed to build a home here.” Harry can’t look Niall in the eye so he stares at the stone floor instead. “I was supposed to make a future for myself, make my mother and Gemma proud. What have I done instead?” 

Harry can’t bear to think what his family might say if they saw him now. Or what Gemma might say, if she learns about the letters. She’s bound to ask, one day. What would Harry tell her? 

Niall comes around the chessboard, kneeling on the floor next to Harry’s chair and putting a hand on the armrest. He gets low, low enough to look Harry in the eye. “So he played at being a servant, what does that matter? From what you’ve told me, it was an inelegant performance at best. What has he won?” 

Harry thinks back to Kingscliff Abbey. He had known from the beginning that the servant wasn’t who he claimed to be, and he’d been careful to not reveal anything. In that regard, nothing is lost. But it’s not about what Louis might have learned when they’d spoken. 

“It isn’t a matter of winning or losing.” 

Niall shrugs. “Then what is it?” 

Suddenly, the words are easy to find. This is what Harry’s been thinking about, ruminating on, since the moment he left the banquet. 

“It’s about honour.” He stands up from his seat, which encourages Niall to do the same. He’s paced these rooms hundreds of times. Niall’s right — it is beginning to feel too small, just another trapping. “What kind of man thinks that way? What kind of prince? If that is how he chooses to greet his allies, what does that say about this country? Who am I marrying?” 

He’s not expecting any answers from Niall. It feels better just to get them out and into the open. A weight off his shoulders. 

“You’re marrying the princess, not her brother.” 

Harry scoffs. “I’m not just marrying one woman, don’t be naive.” His rooms overlook a courtyard, a perfectly groomed garden filled with bright green trees and exotic flowers that Harry’s never seen before. Even this, Harry doesn’t trust anymore. Have they placed him in these rooms for a reason? “I’m promised to her family and her country in equal parts.” 

He’s suspicious of a garden, now. That’s what he’s come to. 

Niall walks to his side. “Do you truly intend to punish an entire country for one man’s sins?” 

“No,” Harry shakes his head, the answer escaping him before he even thinks it over. That would be ridiculous, to assume all of Ryde is immoral simply because their prince is. “I don’t know.” 

“Prince Louis isn’t an honourable man, that much is clear.” Niall lifts a hand, taking Harry’s shoulder and turning him. His look is serious, concerned. “But you know little of his sister, and you owe her the opportunity to prove herself on her own merit.” 

And there, Harry thinks, is the guilt. It’s the only thing he’s regretted, on his own behalf, since they’d arrived in this country. It had been wrong of him to hold Charlotte responsible for the letters. She had been kind in the gardens when she and Harry had spoken. If that had been the first time she too learnt of the letters, then she’d handled it with perfect grace. She’d seemed disappointed, but not angry with Harry. And he’d blamed her for the deception. 

He’d been angry at the banquet. Filled to the brim with it. It had felt good to take it out on Louis, to poke and prod and see where Harry’s words hurt best. But he wasn’t as skilled a player as Louis, that much was obvious now. Louis had planned to hurt Harry for _years._

Harry takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t ease his nerves at all. “I’ve never felt like this Niall. My entire life has been planned since the day I was born, and yet. I’ve never felt so trapped as I do now.” 

He’s never been cornered like this. Not just in a room, or a city. He’s oceans away from his home. Even a letter to his family would take months to reach them. 

Niall squeezes Harry’s shoulder but keeps his face resolute. “Princess Charlotte may yet surprise you.” 

He’s the only person that Harry can trust in this entire country. That must count for something. But still, part of Harry screams his resistance. What if he tries again, only to fail in the same way. What if Charlotte is the same as her brother? 

Whatever Niall sees on Harry’s face exposes him. Before Harry can ask anything else, though, Niall is speaking once more. 

“Like it or not Harry, this is your new home. Your only choice now is what you make of it.” 

♚

An hour later, they are in the courtyard. The rain has paused, but by the look of the dark clouds on the horizon, it is only a short respite. Harry is grateful for it nonetheless. It wouldn’t be very princely of him to meet Charlotte while hiding under the trees. 

“I haven’t played tennis in years,” he tells Niall. 

Niall reaches over and straightens Harry’s collar a little. They’ve been lazing around in their more comfortable clothes for the better part of the week. To be back in his stiff shirt collars is surprisingly uncomfortable. “It’s a good thing that we won’t be playing, then.” 

Harry frowns. “We won’t?” 

“I’m sure you can play if you’d like,” Niall says, “but I believe the invitation was to join Princess Charlotte and watch.” 

“Who’s playing then?” 

Niall clears his throat, pausing for just long enough that Harry narrows his eyes. Before he can say anything, though, Charlotte arrives with two of her ladies behind her. 

“Prince Harry.” Her voice is warm, a little less wary than it had been the first time they met. She bows her head to him, ducking into a light curtsy. “It is good to see you again. Are you well?” 

He bows to her as well, smiling. He ought to have expected questions like this, considering the week he’s spent making excuses for his absence. “I am well enough, Princess.” He doesn’t want to give them the impression that he’s completely healed. He’s sure they all know he’s been exaggerating the truth a little, but suspicion and certainty are two very different things and Harry has no interest in confirming any rumours. “All of our travelling affected me more than I’d expected.” 

Charlotte nods. “Of course.” She sounds sympathetic, but her eyes show that she doesn’t believe a word of it. Harry is quite glad to see that. She’s clever. “Travelling so far would affect anyone.” 

“And how are you, Princess?” 

“I’m well also,” she says graciously. “I wish it were a little sunnier outside, so we might not be so cooped up. The tennis is a welcome respite from working on my tapestry.” 

“You sew?” 

Of course, she does. It’s an easy question, though, and it makes sure they’re not stuck in awkward silence. He’ll take what he can get. 

“I do.” Charlotte doesn’t seem to mind his laziness in finding the right questions though. “It’s one of my mother’s favourite pastimes. We’ve been working on a piece together for the past few days.” 

Harry isn’t expecting a mention of the Queen, so he’s sure his surprise comes across as genuine this time. He just stops himself from glancing around, as if Queen Johannah is going to launch herself from the surrounding bushes. 

“That sounds lovely,” he says instead. “I would like to see it one day.” 

Charlotte smiles. “I will make sure to show you when it is finished.” 

As casually as possible, Harry asks, “will the Queen be joining us today?” 

“Oh no. She’s been called away.” She waves her hand in the air as if to say ‘ _what can you do?’_ “There’s always one crisis or another to occupy her.” 

Startled, Harry can’t help but frown. He shares a glance with Niall, who looks equally concerned. “I hope it’s nothing too serious,” Harry says. 

Charlotte suddenly looks unsure. Her eyes widen, only a little but enough to notice, and a pink tinge colours her cheeks. “Forgive me,” she says quickly. “I was being glib. She simply has matters of state to attend to.” 

Maybe she doesn’t have the same acting talents as her older brother. Her words, though clearly meant to reassure him do nothing of the sort. 

She doesn’t leave him any time to pursue that particular concern. “My sisters will be joining us,” she says quickly, “if you don’t mind. You met them at the banquet?” 

Harry nods. “We were introduced briefly.” 

“I will introduce you again,” she says confidently. “I hope you don’t mind them coming along. They love to watch Louis play.” 

Harry’s stomach drops. “I’m sorry?” 

If Charlotte notices him tense, she doesn’t let on. “I should have mentioned. It’s my brother, Louis, and his friend who will be playing the match today.”

“Is that so?” 

It’s foolish of him to shoot Niall a look with the Princess watching, but Harry does it anyway. Surely it won’t come as a surprise to her that he doesn’t like her brother. He can’t be the first person to feel that way. She ought to be used to it by now. 

“They’re big fans of the sport.” She doesn’t appear to care in the slightest. “Louis is very good at it, although I’ll admit Liam is probably the more skilled of the two. Don’t tell him I told you that.” 

Harry blinks, caught off guard by how casual she’s turned. It’s not the craziest thing in the world to refer to a sibling by their first name, but he hadn’t expected her to leave out Liam’s title as well. Of course, he already knew their families were close. Maybe there was no distinction to them and Liam was as much a brother to her as Louis was. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry says. 

A spatter of rain drops from the sky and all of them look up at once. “We’d better go,” Charlotte says. “The courts are only a short walk away. Come with me.” 

She doesn’t waste any time setting off, leading the way with her ladies in step behind her. Harry and Niall linger for a moment before following themselves, mostly so Harry can lean in and hiss, “Did you know about this?” 

“Of course not,” Niall whispers back. “Her message only said that she wanted to watch the tennis. She said nothing about who was playing the match.” 

Harry thinks back to his earlier questions, how Niall had talked in almost circles. “But you had your suspicions?” 

“Harry, if I alerted you to my every suspicion, I’d never cease talking.” 

Harry scowls. “So you did.” 

“Think of this as an opportunity,” Niall says, once again failing to answer the question. “You’ll be able to see how he operates, the way that he thinks. This could be a great insight for you.” 

Harry glances ahead. It would be a poor thing to be caught scheming about the princess’ brother right behind her back. Her ladies seem preoccupied, though, both of them ducking forward to speak to Charlotte as they walk. 

“Tennis is hardly a game of chess, Niall. Tactics aren’t required.” 

Niall snorts. “That’s bold talk for someone who doesn’t even remember how to play.” 

“I didn’t say I don’t remember!” Harry whacks him on the arm. “I said I haven’t played in a while.” 

“Sounds like the same thing to me.” 

There’s a good chance Harry is going to end up murdering Niall before the day is done. Although that’s probably not the best approach, considering he’s the only person Harry’s got left. Incredulous, half annoyed and half-amused, Harry can’t help but laugh. He’s too loud — like he always is when a laugh catches him off guard — and that does garner the attention of the people around them. 

His momentary glee vanishes as quickly as it came when Harry looks up to see who might have heard. 

“Ah, Prince Harry,” Louis says, striding in from a connecting corridor, Liam at his heels. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Immediately soured, Harry simply nods at him. “Prince Louis.” 

Louis gives him a very pointed once over, frowning. “Are you sure you’re well enough to be on your feet?” 

What an arse. 

Harry keeps his lips closed as he smiles. “Yes, thank you.” 

Louis doesn’t stop though. He falls into an easy step at Harry’s side. Niall follows decorum and slows a little so that he can now walk with Liam behind them.

“It’s only that we heard about your condition.” Louis says it all so dramatically, over the top, as if laughing at the fragility of Harry’s excuse. “After all that travelling, we wouldn’t want to tire you out any further.” 

Harry could hit him. It would jeopardize everything his family has worked for, but he could do it. 

He doesn’t. 

“I hardly think that watching a tennis match will be too taxing.”

“Oh, you’re only watching?” 

Harry bites on his tongue. Not too hard, but just enough to remind himself to keep his temper. “Yes.” 

“That’s a pity,” Louis says. “I thought we might play a round or two.” 

“Well, you thought wrong.” 

They walk silently for a few paces, Harry entirely content to leave it there. The faster Louis understands that Harry doesn’t want to speak to him, the better. 

“Right. Well, if you change your mind just let us know. Either of you,” he looks over his shoulder towards Niall. “We didn’t meet at the banquet. It’s Sir Horan, isn’t it?” 

Niall, an ally in all things, nods as tersely as Harry had. “It is.” 

They go quiet again. At least, until Louis nudges his elbow into Harry’s and says, “Tell me. Is Andras perpetually silent?” 

Harry frowns. “What?” 

Louis shrugs. “I’ve never been so I wouldn’t know, but you seem hardly willing to say a word between you.” He glances at Niall again, daring to flash him a smile. “Is that common in your country?” 

Harry really, really _could_ hit him. 

Even if Louis has proved himself to be the most oblivious prince on the planet, Liam seems to recognise something on Harry and Niall’s faces that indicates they should retreat. Before Harry can spit any of the names he’d like to call Louis, Liam steps forward and interrupts. 

“Louis,” he says, “we should—”

“Right.” There’s a smirk on Louis’ face that suggests he’d like very much to hear what Harry has to say, which only infuriates Harry further. “Duty calls.” Harry only notices now that Louis’ got a tennis racquet in his hand because he waves it in the air at them. “Enjoy the match.” 

He and Liam vanish through a small wooden door. They’re at the courts, Harry realises a little belatedly. Charlotte has already gone inside, leaving Niall and Harry alone outside. 

There is a beat. 

“Christ,” Niall says. “What a wretch.” 

“I told you!” 

♚

Louis plays well. So well that it’s quite irritating, Harry learns quickly. 

There are two rows in the viewing platform, so they take the front. He and Niall sit just down from Charlotte, close enough to speak but still maintaining decorum. Her ladies sit on her other side and Charlotte’s sisters join them soon after. They bow to Harry and say hello before sitting beside Charlotte’s ladies. One of them takes out a small embroidery hoop and begins working there, clearly more interested in that than the sport in front of her. 

Niall was partially right. It is a good opportunity to watch, without fear of being watched in return. Louis sends glances his way, but they’re quick and infrequent. His attention has to stay on the match — Liam is too tough an opponent for anything less — so Harry feels safe, sitting in the gallery and observing. 

This is who he’s been writing to for three years. 

All that time, Harry had thought the author was Charlotte. He’d thought her to be kind, compassionate, and bold. He’d thought she was all that and a thousand other things. A thousand other _good_ things. 

But it wasn’t Charlotte. It was her brother. 

The same brother who’d worn a disguise the first time they’d met. Who’d sneered in Harry’s face and said: _“and oh, what I learnt.”_

How can that man, and the person who Harry felt so _devoted_ to, be the same? 

He doesn’t seem so cruel on the court. He laughs and jokes around with Liam in a way that’s reminiscent of Harry’s relationship with Niall. When he smiles his entire face lights up with it. It’s a contagious thing, and it makes Charlotte and her sisters smile when they see it too. He seems to be made of boundless energy, sweating visibly but undeterred by his tiredness. 

It’s easy to watch him. So easy that Harry almost forgets that he’s watching with a purpose, and not just to soak it all in. 

Louis and Liam play two rounds. Liam wins the first and serves for the majority of the second before Louis finally makes a chase and steals it from him. He gets the game back quickly from there. 

Begrudgingly, Harry claps when Louis wins, which ends up working in his favour because it’s the same moment that Charlotte looks over to him. 

“Are you enjoying the match, Prince Harry?” 

He nods. He’s mostly been enjoying Niall’s colourful commentary, but he doesn’t need to share that. “I am. Your brother is a skilled player.” 

Charlotte smiles, but that’s all she gets to do before someone drops heavily into the empty row behind them and they both jump, startled. 

“You don’t need to lie on the Princess’ account, Your Highness,” the stranger — a man with dark hair and a bright grin — says. “She’s seen her brother lose a thousand times.” 

Harry blinks and considers the man. It’s one of his best talents, his ability to stay calm in a crisis. This hardly qualifies as such, but it has caught him off guard. He glances to Charlotte to gauge her reaction before anything else. 

She’s blushing but looks more embarrassed than upset. “I’m so sorry,” she says to Harry. “This is Sir Thomas Gibson, please excuse him. He’s an old friend to our family, and often forgets his manners.” 

Thomas lifts a finger and waves it in the air. “Ah, but you know what I don’t forget?” He doesn’t give Charlotte the opportunity to reply. “How many times I’ve beaten your brother in a match.” 

Charlotte looks truly scandalised now. “Thomas!” 

Harry doesn’t want to prolong her discomfort. He nods his head to the newcomer. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“And you, Prince Harry.” Thomas’ row is elevated higher than theirs so he’s sitting tall, looking down on them. “We’ve been preparing for your arrival for so long I can hardly believe you’re here now.” 

Harry’s grown used to hearing this. The time it’s taken him to arrive in Ryde seems to be the easiest avenue to make conversation without talking about anything meaningful, so Harry’s heard it many times by now. At the very least, it means he’s perfected his answer. “It feels the same to have finally arrived, let me assure you.” 

“And how are you enjoying Ryde so far?” 

Thomas is absurdly casual with him, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. It puts him in close proximity to Harry, as well as Charlotte. Close enough that Harry can’t help but glance at Niall, just to check and see if he’s the only one who’s noticed. Niall’s eyebrows are high. 

Slightly reassured, Harry turns his very best smile on Thomas. He’s been doing this his entire life. Diplomacy isn’t difficult. “I haven’t seen much of it, I’ll admit, but I enjoyed the journey from Kingscliff Abbey very much. It’s very beautiful.” 

“Oh well,” Thomas claps his hands together, grinning. “If you liked that trip you should try your luck just south of Haverhill. It’ll give you a chance to see the lower town, and once you’re outside the city the views are breathtaking. There’s good hunting to be had that way, as well.” 

As startling as this conversation is, Harry can’t help the curiosity that sparks in him. He’s been inside the castle walls since they arrived, and cramped up in a ship for months before that. The idea of getting outside, finally getting a bit of _space_ —

“That sounds incredible.” 

Thomas takes a firm hold of Harry’s shoulder. The move is so sudden that Niall jerks a little, instinctively defensive, but it’s clear in the next second that Thomas is only being enthusiastic. “I’d be more than happy to accompany you if you’d like! Now that you’re here, there’s little to do save for making arrangements for the wedding, and the women have that task more than covered.” 

Harry’s stomach drops at the mention of the wedding. It’s not his imagination that Charlotte stiffens too, as though she’s also just remembered the blessed event. 

He shoots Thomas a smile and hopes his discomfort doesn’t shine through. “We may have to wait until the weather lightens a little, but once it does we’d be very happy to ride out with you.” 

Thomas grins. Energy seems to thrum around him, shaking the air with his exuberance. As startling as it had been initially, Harry finds himself relaxing now, basking in it. “It’s a plan then,” he says. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m up to play next.” 

And then he jumps up, leaving as fast as he’d arrived. He bounds to the entry to the courts, picking up a racket from where it leans nearby. 

When Louis catches sight of him, his face lights up. “Gibson!” He almost sings. “You ready to have your arse kicked?” 

It’s horrifically inappropriate, but when Harry swings his head to hastily check Charlotte’s reaction, she looks only fond. Even the ladies don’t seem to mind, which suggests they’ve heard it all before. 

“I’d like to see you try, Your Highness,” Thomas laughs back. 

It’s the closest match yet. Louis plays hard, so hard in fact that Harry can easily see him sweating from the exertion. He doesn’t let up when he realises the score is turning from his favour. It seems to only invigorate him further and he grows bold, sending Thomas scrambling across the court to meet his swings. Thomas makes it, though, and eventually, the game ends and the score is called in his favour. 

When it happens, and Louis is declared the loser, Harry is surprised to see him laugh. He shoots a mad grin at Thomas as they shake hands, joking together with ease. His loss seems to be of absolutely no concern. 

It makes Harry sit back a little in his seat. Perhaps Niall was right. There is something to be learned from a tennis match, after all. 

♚

Harry stops hiding in his rooms. The castle is still foreign to him, and Haverhill is still not his home, but it becomes a little easier to navigate now that they’ve made friends with Charlotte and Thomas. 

If you can call them that. Harry might not, but they could be friends, one day, and that’s what matters. In all their interactions, Harry’s found no evidence that Charlotte was complicit in her brother’s games, so he can’t bring himself to resent her for it. Instead, he focuses on getting to know her a little better. They’ll be wed in just under two weeks, and he’d like to at least have an acquaintanceship with her before then. 

He starts by joining her for meals. He has had a standing invitation to eat lunch with her and her family since he arrived. Of course, their meetings are chaperoned — monitored closely by her ladies who are never far away — but they’re still able to speak to one another. That’s all that he can ask. 

The first time he decides to go, he worries that Louis will be there too, but he quickly finds his concern was for nothing. On the third day that Harry arrives to see Louis absent, he works up the courage to ask where he is. 

“Oh, Louis rarely gets to eat lunch with us,” Charlotte tells him. “He eats with our mother most of the time, so they can work on state affairs.” 

It’s the beginning of a trend. Harry learns quickly from there that Louis is almost always too occupied by his role as prince to enjoy much downtime. Occasionally Charlotte will mention that he joined them for dinner or sat with them in the afternoon in the library, but for the most part Harry hears nothing. 

It makes it far easier for Harry to feel comfortable navigating the castle by himself. 

When the weather clears, and sunshine peeks at them through the clouds, Thomas keeps his promise. He takes Harry and Niall to the stables to choose their mounts, and they ride out for a day of exploring.

He’s right about Ryde in the sun. It seems to glow with life. The lush green grass sways gently with the breeze, a wind which carries the reassuring scent of saltwater. When they ride to the cliffs, they are rewarded with a stunning vista. The ocean sparkles as the light catches it as if it’s in competition with the sky to find the brightest blue. 

Looking at it, Harry forgets to feel trapped. This country could be more than just a place he is shackled to. He could make something of this place. 

Thomas pulls his horse up next to Harry’s. Niall has ridden ahead, almost more gleeful to be out in the fresh air than Harry is. 

“I’ve seen that look before, you know,” Thomas says. 

In just the few days Harry has known him, he’s already marvelled at what a strange man Thomas is. He’s bold in a way that Harry isn’t familiar with. So many people have tiptoed around Harry in his life and those who don’t have a reason to feel comfortable around him. Niall and Gemma have never held back, but that’s because they were raised alongside Harry. They were family, so of course, they never stood on ceremony. Thomas has none of that but doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. 

He’s close with Charlotte’s family, that much is obvious. Perhaps his comfort around them has simply translated to any royal, but even that Harry finds hard to believe. People who grow up around families like his know the rules, they’re taught them early. Thomas seems to disregard them not because he doesn’t know about them, but because he does. He understands the rules as they are, and dismisses them still. 

It’s refreshing. 

Because of this, Harry can’t help but smile a little when he asks, “What look?” 

“The one you’re wearing now.” Thomas turns and considers the view in front of them once more. “That Ryde might be worth something after all.” 

Harry panics. “I never said—” 

Thomas waves his worries away with a casual hand. “You didn’t have to. You’re not the first person to feel a little disheartened amongst the rain and the storm clouds. As I said, I’ve seen it before.”

Harry feels caught out, a deer in front of a hunter’s bow. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Again, Thomas doesn’t even bat an eye. “This country doesn’t like to show all her cards at once. You have to work to get to know her.” 

“You talk about Ryde as if it’s a puzzle.” 

“No,” Thomas shakes his head. He has a thoughtful look about him, as he stares out over the cliffs. It’s as if he’s seeing it all for the first time. “Not a puzzle. A canvas.” 

“A canvas?” 

Thomas nods as if he isn’t speaking complete nonsense. “To me, Ryde is a painting half-finished. It already tells the story of my family, my parents and theirs. But it’s got so many stories left to tell, so much paint still on the brush, that it’ll never truly be done. All I can do is think about where my brushstrokes will fall — what story I want to etch in this land.”

Oh. 

Maybe not nonsense at all. 

“That’s.” Harry has to pause, just to swallow, to get his words right. “I like that very much.” 

Thomas’ horse is restless, moving on the spot, and it seems oddly right. This isn’t a man who wants to stand still. “Don’t you see Andras in the same way?” 

Harry shakes his head. “I’ve never thought about it that way.” 

“Well,” Thomas shrugs. “You can think about it now if you want. What is Andras to you?” 

Thinking about it now conjures some of Harry’s fondest memories. The way the sand shimmers when the wind sings over its surface, picking up the tiny granules and swirling them around until the air seems to dance. Warm evenings, stretched out on the floor, eating berries and playing his favourite games. 

Then there’s the way Gemma almost shrieks with her laughter, in those times that she’s overcome with excitement. Normally it’s when she’s just beaten Harry in a race or caught him in a prank. And the way that their mother smiles, half amused and half dismayed by their silliness. 

“It’s home,” Harry says. He doesn’t feel guilty saying it, even if he knows that he shouldn’t. Ryde is supposed to be his new home, yes, but it’s not yet. Harry can’t fathom it ever coming close to filling that gap in his heart. 

But Thomas doesn’t mind at all. “Of course,” he says it easily like he’d already known. “But what else?” 

Harry shakes his head and tries to think. “I don’t know.” More and more thoughts of home come to mind, each of them as warm and comforting as the next. “It’s so different to here, but. It’s all the things you said at the same time.” 

Thomas smiles, encouraging. “Tell me.” 

Harry looks out over the cliffs. The water is still shining, reflecting the sun’s light so brightly that it’s almost too much to look at. “Well, the oceans for one. The sea is so warm in Vierres you can swim there on any day of the year. When I was young I used to sneak out of the castle in the evenings so I could go and swim with the moon overhead.” 

That earns him a laugh. When Harry looks back at Thomas, he’s looking down at the sea incredulously. The waves are crashing hard on the sand — but it’s not sand. It’s the same gravel from the day that Harry had arrived in Ryde. Brown and black pebbles, thousands of them, but each one coarse and rough. 

Thomas looks at that water and says, “at night?” 

“You wouldn’t do it here,” Harry says. “It’s far too cold. But the water is different at home. It’s less rough. And swimming under the stars, it’s.” He has to pause, again to make sure that the words are exactly right. “It’s like the water is there just to cleanse you of all your worries.” 

“That sounds incredible,” Thomas says. 

Now that Harry’s started, he can’t stop. “It is. The entire country is the same way. People assume that it’s harsh because of the wind and the heat, but it’s anything but. You’ve never felt so welcomed as you do when you walk down the Vierres streets. It’s soft, like silk.” 

It’s strange. For the last few months, whenever he thought of Andras he’d been consumed with an awful sadness, but this time it doesn’t come. Instead, the same warmth that he’s talking about swells in his chest.

For the first time since leaving, Harry feels a weight lift from his shoulders. How can he be scared to make something new in Ryde, when Andras has forged him out of iron and sand and made him strong? What is there to be afraid of? 

Emotion floods him and makes him dizzy. 

“Thank you,” he breathes out, loud enough for Thomas to hear him. “It’s never occurred to me to think of it in that way.” 

“Don’t thank me.” Thomas looks at him fondly. Like he thinks of Harry as a friend, or a could be friend, too. Then he says something surprising. “I didn’t think of it myself. I had to be told the same as you.” 

Harry feels so light. He smiles curiously. “Then who did?” 

“Prince Louis.” 

He thunders back down to the ground. “What?” 

Thomas is facing the ocean again, so he doesn’t catch Harry’s swift change in mood. “We can’t have been more than fourteen when he said it to me. I was — I’d been worried about the crop that year, it hadn’t done well and my family was concerned. But then he told me what I told you. That our countries aren’t just the ground we stand on, but the carriers of our legacy. And that we ought to make ours proud.” 

It doesn’t add up, what Thomas is saying and the Louis that Harry knows. That Louis is back at Haverhill, surely taunting someone else with their secrets, or doing some more spying. How can Thomas’ words be from the same person, thought up by the same brain? 

“You.” Harry stops, thinks and tries again. “You’re friends, then?” 

It’s bold. Probably too bold, considering how short a time he’s known the man beside him. But there’s something about being outside the castle walls that draws it from him anyway. 

Thomas is a bit distracted. His horse is still shifting, restless to start moving again. 

“Who?” 

“You and Prince Louis.” 

Surprised, Thomas glances at him. There’s nothing accusatory in his look, though. His face is as open as ever. “Oh yes,” he says. “He’s put up with me for far too long. I’m sure he’ll tire of me soon.” 

Wait. Louis will tire of _Thomas_?

Something must show on Harry’s face because Thomas barks a quick laugh. “I don’t mean it really. He’s too good to give up on someone, even if they’re as irritating as I can be. I’d trust him with anything.” 

Harry can’t help himself. “ _Really_?” 

He can tell by Thomas’ reaction that it’s his first misstep. It’s not that he closes up entirely, but something in his face tightens, turns a little wary. He watches Harry for a moment, more thoughtful than anything else, and then says, “Charlotte told me that you and Louis got off to a bad start.” 

Harry looks down at his hands. It’s easier to focus on the thick leather band of the reins than it is to think about what else Thomas might have been told. People talk, and Charlotte is as entitled to her own opinions and observations as anyone else. Still, Harry doesn’t want to think about his name being whispered through the castle. 

Thomas doesn’t say anything else. He just waits, quiet, for Harry to respond. 

So Harry nods. “You could say that.” 

Thomas hums. “Was it you or him that made things sour?” 

Harry lifts his head and frowns at him. It’s a very reasonable question, which doesn’t make any sense at all considering Thomas is one of Louis’ oldest friends. He’s the last person who should be fair with Harry.

It’s so absurd that Harry lets suspicion creep in. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been tricked. “I don’t know if I should tell you.” 

He expects Thomas to react poorly to that. Anyone would, finding out that someone doesn’t trust them. But Thomas laughs. “Him then.” He’s close enough to reach over and elbow Harry good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything.” 

Harry huffs, surprised. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that.” 

Again, Thomas isn’t offended. He sighs. “Ah, I suppose I will.” He thinks for a moment, then says, “Well, _if_ it was him then, I’d say don’t discount him entirely. He has his good and bad days, like all of us, but he’s a good man at his core. One of the best.” 

One of the best. It echoes in Harry’s head, rattles around there. One of the best. 

How can that be true when everything in Harry’s experience has proved him to be the opposite? 

There’s no time to figure it out now, and it’s certainly not a good idea to think too hard about it under the careful eye of one of Louis’ close friends. 

Harry taps his horse with his heels, urging the animal forward. “We should find Niall.” Niall’s all the way off into the distance now, they’ll have to ride fast to catch up with him. The horse begins to walk slowly. 

Thomas falls right into step beside him. “You’re right. He’s getting away from us, isn’t he?” He doesn’t wait for Harry to respond. “Come on then!” 

He pushes his horse forward as well, and before Harry knows it they’re at a gallop — all traces of conversation lost to the air rushing past his ears. 

♚

When they get back from the ride, every muscle in Harry’s body aches. He limps, more than walks, to meet Charlotte in the dining hall for dinner. Niall stays behind, waving goodbye to Harry and making a noise that sounds like it should have been words but couldn’t quite get it together at the last moment. He’d ridden faster and harder than Harry had — it was a wonder he hadn’t fallen asleep on his horse as they’d made their way back to the castle. 

When he arrives she and both her younger sisters are already sitting down. There are two older ladies standing in the corner, who Harry can only assume are their chaperones for the evening. He offers them a polite smile and gets a steely glare in return, one that dares him to cause trouble. 

It’s only when he sits down opposite Charlotte that he realises Louis’ there too. He’s in the corner near a pitcher of wine, pouring himself a glass. It’s odd to see for a few reasons — first, Louis hasn’t joined them for a meal the entire time Harry’s eaten with the girls, and second, because he’s pouring his own drink. It’s standard in Ryde for a servant to fill the glasses, and keep and careful eye on them to make sure the liquid never dwindles. That Louis is doing it himself is very out of the ordinary. 

Harry is still staring when Louis looks up. He catches Harry’s eye, stiffens a little under his gaze, then glances away again. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer Harry any obnoxious greeting. He just sets the pitcher down and returns to his seat, at the other end of the table between the twins. 

He doesn’t look at Harry again. 

It’s what Harry’s prayed for since the day he arrived. He’s sat in his rooms and wished that Louis would just, please, leave him alone. Now that it’s happening, though, Harry feels a little unbalanced. He watches Louis for a long time, waiting to catch his gaze when it inevitably flickers back to Harry, but it never does. 

Charlotte clears her throat. It’s a little pointed, and Harry feels his cheeks flush as he hastily redirects his attention. 

She’s gracious enough not to say anything about it. Instead, she asks, “How was your ride with Thomas?” 

The servants arrive with their food at that moment, so Harry pauses as they reach around him to set down his plate. They’re having duck tonight, one of Harry’s favourites, and his stomach grumbles just at the sight of it. He’d forgotten how hungry he was. He picks up his fork and stabs a piece of meat, trying to decide on how best to explain his journey today. He’d spent hours thinking about what Thomas had said, and about the outlandish idea that Louis had come up with it all on his own. But he can’t very well say that to Charlotte. 

“It was illuminating.” He decides that’s the best way to phrase it. Maybe the only way. 

Charlotte shoots him a knowing look. “Don’t tell me,” she says. “He waxed poetic about Ryde the entire time.” 

It’s so on the nose that Harry startles again. There’s something about this family, he thinks, that continues to catch him off guard. 

Although Thomas and Charlotte he’s beginning to figure out. 

He smiles at her ruefully. “You clearly know him very well.” 

He’s not so blind that he misses the flash of panic in her eyes. It’s a little sad to see — he’s under no illusions that Charlotte chose him for herself, but it would be nice if she grew to trust him well enough to confide in him. They can build that though. 

She does a suitable job of covering her initial reaction. “Well,” she says, as if it’s obvious, “we did grow up together. And even if we hadn’t, he’s a very predictable man.” 

Harry would say the opposite, actually, but he doesn’t know her half as well as she does. So he shrugs. “I’ve heard it said that predictable is just another word for reliable.” 

She shoots him a small smile, quizzical, as if she’s trying to figure him out. Harry wonders if she will. 

“Yes, well,” she says, “he’s that too.” 

She takes a bite of her food and Harry quickly glances at Louis again. It’s not on purpose, his little looks. It’s more like a habit, like a magnet that draws him back, forcing him to check even though he knows he shouldn’t. 

But still, Louis doesn’t look back. 

His entire focus is on his sisters, who are excitedly talking to him about their mathematics lesson from earlier in the day. Harry can’t hear the details — they’re polite, speaking quickly but quietly so they don’t interrupt anyone else in the room — but he can see Louis’ reactions plain as day. 

Again, he is struck that this is the same man who’d treated him so viciously at the banquet. This version of Louis is settled and patient. He stays quiet as the girls speak to him, nodding his head, his face open. Surely he would already know the mathematics facts that they’re sharing — Harry had to learn them himself when he was around thirteen — but he reacts as if their every word is brand new. 

Harry can’t look away. 

He manages to maintain a conversation with Charlotte, casual comments about what he’d thought of the Ryde countryside and where else she recommends he visit, but his attention doesn’t stray from the other end of the table. He is so caught up by them that he startles when the dining hall doors open once more. 

A servant walks in, looking urgent.

“Prince Louis. Your mother requests your presence urgently.” 

Louis looks across the room, his easy smile vanishing in an instant. A frown furrows his brow, and he glances at Charlotte with an air of alarm before he stands. He nods to the twins. “I’m sorry, I have to—” 

“Go, go,” one of them says. 

Louis still doesn’t look at Harry as he leaves, rushing out the door with the servant hot on his heels. He goes so quickly that an odd atmosphere settles in the room without him. 

Harry looks to Charlotte too, confused. “Should we...?” 

He doesn’t know what he’s asking — only that something has happened that needs Louis’ urgent attention and that it doesn’t feel right to keep eating their dinner as if nothing has happened at all. 

Charlotte waves a hand in the air. “Oh no.” Her smile is genuine, unconcerned. “Don’t worry yourself, it’s nothing. Louis gets called to these meetings all the time.” 

Harry still feels vaguely unsettled. A look at their two stern chaperones says that they feel the same — they’re glancing between each other with furrowed brows — but Charlotte has already returned to her meal, and Harry can’t very well object to her reassurances. 

So he shakes the uneasy feeling away and pushes Louis from his mind. 

He has more pleasant things to think about. 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	4. Chapter 4

♚

Louis is good at riddles. 

They used to be his favourite thing in the world. He recalls fondly the days from his childhood when he’d sit at his mother’s feet and beg her to ask him another. 

“ _I'm tall when I'm young and I'm short when I'm old. What am I?”_ she’d ask him. “ _What has a head and a tail, but no body?”_ Sometimes he’d think on the answer for days, sitting in his room or the library, desperate to figure it out himself. When he did he used to shriek it from the top of his lungs, half out of pride and half because it made his mother laugh. 

He’d always figure it out though. Always. 

Harry is the first riddle that’s got Louis completely stumped.

It’s as if they’re speaking a different language to one another. Every time Louis tries to be kind, to extend an olive branch, it comes out coarse and mocking. And Harry, even when his words are polite, the model of decorum, Louis can’t help but see a slight in them. 

It’s impossible. 

He mulls this over in his head as he walks towards his mother’s strategy room. Dinner had been awkward, there were no two ways about it. Tonight, his tactic had been to give Harry some space. All the other times when Louis got too close, he got too sharp, too defensive at the same time. It had felt a little easier to focus on Phoebe and Daisy instead, to try and eat with them the same way he would have any other night. 

He’d felt Harry eyes on him but he’d done his best to ignore it. If Harry was judging them, once again painting the girls with his opinion of Louis, then there was nothing Louis could do about it. Maybe by staying quiet, he was giving Harry the chance to make a new assessment, draw new conclusions about Louis and his family. 

He seems to have at least forgiven Lottie, and for that Louis is grateful. 

He’s thinking about the soft, genuine smile Harry had given her when he finally arrives. Then, his attention is swiftly pulled away. 

“Louis.” Johannah is already inside, but not yet seated. There’s an urgency to her expression which alarms him. “Come in, quickly.” 

He does. Moving quickly to his seat he glances around the room. Ruben is standing at her normal place, a grim look on her face. Opposite her, Jakob also looks dour. That, if anything, is the most concerning thing. They never agree on anything. 

“What’s going on? Has something happened?” 

Jakob nods solemnly. It’s not a good look on him. Louis prefers him smug. “It has, I’m afraid.” 

Louis glances to Ruben. “Your man in Sicea?” 

It’s an easy first guess. And a correct one, considering the tightness to Ruben’s stance, the concern on her brow. “He’s confirmed our suspicions. He got aboard one of King Edoard’s so-called trade ships. We now know that it’s anything but.”

Louis’ stomach sinks. “It’s a warship?” 

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

Louis’ first instinct is to look to his mother. Some in the room will judge him for it, but he can’t concern himself with that now. The majority of his life has been spent in relative peacetime. The idea that their closest neighbour to the north might be looking to end that makes his heart race. It’s an instinctive sort of panic, one that only his mother can help to calm. 

Her face is clear. She’s breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling with the movement, and watching the room with a wary sort of fatigue in her eye. She’s resigned to this already, to a worst-case scenario that Louis hasn’t quite grasped yet. 

“Christ,” Louis says finally. “How many?” 

Jakob speaks now, apparently not content with just listening. “At least forty in the water so far. I’ve sent some men of my own to observe the situation, and they say there’s no sign of the launches slowing.” 

Winded, Louis leans heavily on the table in front of him. “Forty ships?” He echoes. Again, he glances at Johannah and finds her the picture of impassivity. “How can that be possible?” 

Ruben shakes her head. “We don’t know yet.” 

“How can he have made forty ships without us noticing?” Louis asks, searching the room for an answer. 

“I have my man working on that as well,” Ruben says. She turns her body to face Johannah directly. “For the moment, we must keep our focus on the King, and what he plans to do.” 

A numb feeling settles on Louis’ shoulders. For the thousandth time in his life, he feels utterly helpless — as if he’s suddenly remembered that the world moves on its own axis and there’s nothing Louis can do about it. So King Edoard wants a war, then. But with who? 

“What’s his goal, do we think?” Louis asks after a moment. “Erinea?” 

“No, it can’t be,” Ruben says. Louis thinks back to their last meeting, to the suspicions Ruben already had by then, due only to the narrow route. “They’ve got no path to Erinea, save for the river, and they’ll never make it with a force so large.” 

Johannah clears her throat. It’s the first noise she’s made since Louis sat down, and it silences the room immediately. “There’s nothing that they need in Erinea.”

“If not Erinea then where?” 

Unease creeps up Louis’ spine, tingling at the nape of his neck. The remaining options make a shortlist, at the top of which is —

“Andras,” Johannah says. 

Louis swallows thickly. His gaze flicks to Jakob and Ruben. “You’re sure?” 

“Yes.” Jakob’s tone is heavy, weighted. It carries the clear implication of what an attack on Andras would mean for them, for Harry and for Lottie. 

The possibilities spin through Louis’ head, what might happen to Harry’s family, and his people, but he tries not to get ahead of himself. “What do they want in Andras?” 

Johannah answers this for him as well. “Iron.” 

There’s no question there, but Jakob nods regardless. “Yes again, Your Majesty.” 

It doesn’t make sense. Sicea has purchased iron from Andras for years. The map between their countries has been a well-established trade route since long before Louis’ time. These were allegiances forged in the age of his great-grandfather, Jon. For King Edoard to challenge them now… 

“Has something changed?” Louis asks. “Has Andras increased their asking price?” 

“Not that we’re aware of, Your Highness,” Ruben says. 

“It’s expensive even at its current rate,” Jakob interjects. “It’s very possible that King Edoard has decided war is worth the expense if it wins him the iron mines.” 

“Okay.” Taking all of this in, fighting to process it, is a battle. It’s hard to think straight, with so much suddenly swimming through his head. “So we send riders, tell him to cease or risk our retaliation.” 

Ruben and Jakob share a look, and once again it gives Louis pause. There is an awkward beat of silence before they both glance to Johannah and Louis realises that he has not said the right thing. 

“Uh,” Ruben begins. 

“That would not be advised, Your Highness,” Jakob says. 

It feels suddenly as if Louis is the only one who hasn’t understood. But what is it that he’s missed? 

“We certainly have the men on land to fight and win against Sicea if we needed to,” Ruben says. “But our resources at sea dim in comparison to theirs. If King Edoard were to attack Haverhill from the coastline, we would suffer heavy losses and likely defeat at his hands.” 

Louis’ chest feels hollow. It isn’t just Haverhill that sits on the coastline of Ryde. All of their richest resources have always come from being near the sea. Every major city in Ryde relies on the coastal climate to thrive. They would all be at risk. 

“You think he would attack us?” It’s moments like this that remind Louis how very little of the world he’s truly seen. He has sat in on these meetings for years, he should know the answers, but he just can’t find them. “Our allegiance has stood for almost a century. You think he would throw that away?” 

Ruben looks at him with something akin to sympathy in her eyes. It’s worse than any condescension he’s ever faced from Jakob. 

“Building a fleet such as this is a bold move, Your Highness. Bolder still, when you consider that he somehow did it in secret. We can no longer place our trust in him, and we certainly cannot rely on Edoard's sense of loyalty to keep Ryde safe.” 

“So yes,” Louis concludes. “You do think he’ll attack if we make a challenge.” 

“I do.” 

Louis thinks again. His mother remains conspicuously silent, letting Louis take the lead. It's a test, he knows, to see how he deals with a crisis like this. Louis gets the sense that he’s not doing very well. 

“Can we build more ships in the time it would take them to get here?” It’s possibly a fool’s question, but Louis doesn’t let himself feel ashamed for asking. Pretending that he knew everything would be the silliest thing for him to do. Better to admit that he needs guidance, and allow them to give it to him. “If we force them to fight on two fronts then their force would be split down the middle. That would give us some sort of advantage, surely?” 

At the very least, Ruben seems to think it over before she responds. It gives him some reassurance that his ideas aren’t being dismissed without any thought. Ultimately, though, she shakes her head. “It’s a fourteen-day journey from Sicea, and their ships are already on the water. They’d be upon us before we ever truly started. We also don’t yet know the exact number of ships they have. We’ve no way of preparing for such an unknown.”

Then Louis is out of ideas. He sits back in his chair, defeated. “Well. What do you suggest?” 

“They’d like for us to do nothing, Louis.” 

Louis’ head whips to face his mother. He has to wait a moment, just to be sure of what she’s said. “Nothing?” 

“We don’t have any skin in the game between Andras and Sicea.” Johannah looks to Jakob and Ruben and apparently sees that she’s on the right track. Both of her advisors look solemn but unrepentant. “They will sail on Andras regardless of anything we say. The only thing we can control is whether or not King Edoard chooses to sail to our shores as well.” 

Louis can’t help but frown at her. “Of course we do. Andras’ prince is Charlotte’s husband.” 

Johannah shakes her head. It’s a tiny movement, restrained, but it’s also stern. “Not yet.”

“What?”

He heard her. He just can’t believe —

“He’s not Charlotte’s husband yet, Louis.” 

Louis stares at her. She holds his gaze, resolute. 

Jakob takes advantage of the silence between them. “Yes,” he nods to Johannah. “And as far as Sicea is concerned, no formal relationship exists between Andras and Ryde. It’s likely why Edoard has chosen this time to move. To give us the option to — ”

“No!” Louis interrupts him. It’s hasty, impulsive, and definitely not the right decision in this room. 

Even with company, Johannah doesn’t shy from snapping at him. “Louis!” 

That is indication enough how far across the line Louis has stepped, but he doesn’t stop. “You’re going to call off the wedding?” 

As incredulous as Louis is, Johannah is calm. “It must be considered.” 

“Your Majesty,” Jakob says. “With all due respect, it really is our only option.” 

“The hell it is!” 

“ _Louis_.” Johannah’s voice is sharp and brooks no quarter. “This is not something that you or I can judge with emotion. We must be logical, and we must take into account the thousands of lives that we hold in our care. I will not rush into cancelling this wedding, but if the cost of proceeding is the lives of my people then that is a price I am unwilling to pay.” 

Louis takes a deep breath. 

She’s right, of course. To make a plan of action with Harry’s happiness at the forefront of his mind would be unwise and irresponsible. Louis is a prince first, and responsible for his people just as his mother is. He’s been taught since he was a child that they must always be his priority. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. Ruben shuffles a little, clearly uncomfortable at witnessing such an exchange, but Louis doesn’t shy away. He’s still learning, and it isn’t the worst thing in the world for Ruben to witness that. Especially since she’ll probably advise him in the same way she’s advised his mother. Jakob he cares less about. 

Johannah turns back to them, apparently satisfied with Louis’ apology. “Say that we don’t send anything to Edoard, but we go ahead with the wedding. What will happen then?” 

“It’s likely that King Edoard will still attack Andras,” Ruben says. “Ryde is not in his path there, and if he determines that we will not act on Andras’ behalf then we will be of little concern to him.” 

“What if he attacks and Andras pushes him back?” Louis asks. He may have been chastised, but that doesn’t mean he’ll just sit here and listen. They’ve all been so quick to dismiss Andras, but Queen Anne is as formidable as any other ruler. They’re not beaten yet. “Are we at risk then?” 

“We don’t believe so,” Jakob says. “Sicea benefits too greatly from our open trade agreement for King Edoard to risk an unprompted attack. His people wouldn’t support it, and he won’t risk an uprising.” 

“But,” Ruben says pointedly. “If we say nothing and Andras beats him back, I do not expect Queen Anne will take kindly to our silence on the matter.” 

It’s the first thing to break Johannah’s stony facade. She frowns. “She wouldn’t attack us. Not with her son married to my daughter, residing with us.” 

“I don’t believe she would attack us, no.” 

“She might increase the tariffs though,” Jakob says. “She certainly will for Sicea, if she continues to trade with them at all. We don’t want to suffer the same fate.” 

“I see,” Johannah says. Louis can see how she’s thinking now, clenching her jaw while she combs through each of their options. 

There’s only one option that they have left to consider. 

“What happens if the wedding is called off?” If it truly is their best path forward, then Louis wants to understand exactly why. He’ll have to look Harry in the eye after the decision is made. He won’t let this be another thing he hides behind. 

There’s a little more respect in Ruben’s look when she answers. “Ryde will be free of any formal alliance with Andras. King Edoard will be free to attack them without concern for our reaction.” 

“And if Andras still wins?” Louis doesn’t see how this strengthens their position. “Surely Queen Anne will resent us for breaking the engagement and raise the tariff all the same?” 

“Ah,” Jakob lifts his finger in the air. He’s pleased to point out something else that Louis has missed. It’s almost comforting to see him return to form. “That will all depend on what we do with her son.” 

And there it is. The final piece of the puzzle. The answer to this riddle. 

Louis’ throat goes dry. “What we _do_ with him?” 

Jakob shoots him a tight smile. His casual annoyance with Louis’ presence seems to have shifted to true irritation now, and though he’s trying to hide it in front of Johannah, it bleeds through his eyes. “To put it bluntly, Your Highness — do we keep him here, or do we send him back?” 

Louis looks straight to Ruben, feeling suddenly urgent. There’s no time for him to let his panic in. He has to understand. “Why would we send him back?” 

Ruben isn’t as nonchalant as Jakob, but there is a gritty resignation on her face that tells Louis quickly that Jakob’s question isn’t so outlandish. “Calling off the wedding is a good first sign to Sicea that we hold no allegiance with Andras. But if we keep Prince Harry here, if we protect him, then King Edoard may still see us as a threat.” 

Louis breathes sharply through his nose. “So what?” He’s turning glib again, but it’s difficult to fight. His heart is pounding. “We send him back to Andras with our best wishes?” 

As always, Jakob’s focus remains on Johannah. He nods. “That is one option. But there is also merit in sending him to Sicea.” 

For a moment Louis thinks he’s misheard. He plays the words over in his head again, checking, just be sure that he heard correctly. 

When there is no doubt in his mind, he still needs Jakob to say it again. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Jakob’s gaze flickers to Louis and then back to Johannah. “Undoubtedly, King Edoard has the stronger force. He will be the best man to back in this fight. If we were to give the prince to him, it would send him a strong message that we support him.” 

“We don’t support him!” Louis leaps from his seat without thinking. Even the blood in his veins feels desperate. “What are you—?” 

For the second time, Johannah interrupts him sharply. “Louis. Sit down.” This is a clear order, one of the sternest she’s given him in years. As wild as Louis feels, he can’t help but obey. Johannah looks straight to Jakob. “I have no interest in declaring support for King Edoard. He has amassed a force in secret and appears to have decided to attack his neighbour without any thought to negotiation. I do not support him.” 

Jakob ducks his head. “I understand, Your Majesty.” 

Johannah leaves a pause, looking at them all before going on. “However,” she continues slowly. “You are not entirely wrong.” 

Louis gapes at her. He opens his mouth — to say what? — but she doesn’t give him the chance. 

“What we do with Prince Harry will be seen as a message no matter what we choose.” She says it to the room, but her eyes are on Louis. This is for him. “So we mustn’t make the decision lightly.” 

Giving Harry to King Edoard is a promise of torture and even death. It would sink the final nail into Andras, incapacitate their Queen and make the entire country weaker for it. 

He shakes his head at his mother. “You can’t be considering—”

“I will consider every option that is available to us, Louis.” She must see the shock on his face, read the disgust he feels that she would even think about sending Harry into the hands of his enemies. “And I will do so carefully. His fate will not be decided tonight.” 

The tightness in Louis’ chest loosens, just an inch. 

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to be a prince. “Very well.” 

Johannah looks to Ruben. “Put an end to the wedding celebrations. I will speak with Charlotte tonight and tell her that the wedding is off. Tomorrow morning I will tell Prince Harry the same.”

Louis watches her carefully. “Just the wedding?” 

“Yes. For now. Where Prince Harry goes remains to be seen.” 

Louis takes a deep breath. He’s probably revealing too much of himself, but his panic hasn’t quite subsided yet and he can’t bring himself to care. “I’d like to tell him.” 

Jakob winces. “Are you sure, Your Highness? This might be news better delivered by Her Majesty?” 

Christ, Louis dislikes him. 

He ignores Jakob and looks to his mother. She watches him evenly for a moment, assessing him. He keeps his head high. He has made many mistakes in this meeting, but in this, he won’t let her down. 

Whatever she sees on his face must satisfy her, because she soon nods her head. 

“No,” she says to Jakob. “Louis will tell him. Let Harry hear it from a friend.” 

Louis swallows a lump rising in his throat. 

_A friend._ Right. 

♚

Harry is gone from the dining hall by the time Louis returns, but Louis doesn’t have to look far to find him. He’s in the library, sitting in comfortable silence and reading with Niall, Thomas and Lottie. Lottie’s ladies are there too, but they sit a little ways away, giving Lottie as much privacy as they can while still acting as chaperones. 

Louis lingers by the door for a moment, as quietly as he can. Harry seems caught up by whatever book he’s reading, and his face is as unguarded as Louis has ever seen. He looks relaxed, a little tired maybe, but still content. 

All of that will shatter the second Louis tells him. 

Guilt rumbles in his stomach, the same way it always does where Harry is concerned. Louis hangs back for a beat, and then another, before finally forcing himself to clear his throat. 

They all look up at him. He watches as Harry’s face hardens when he catches sight of Louis, shifting into displeasure. 

Maybe it’s good that Harry already hates him. Maybe it will make this a little easier. 

“Louis,” Lottie says warmly, her smile the antithesis of the scowl on Harry’s face. “Come sit with us.” 

She’s been much kinder to him over the past few days. Her anger seems to have chilled, although Louis doesn’t know exactly why. Whatever it is, he’s grateful. There’s not much worse in the world than Lottie hating him. 

Of course, her life has changed tonight as well. It isn’t just Harry who’s affected by the broken engagement. Lottie’s been engaged since before she could talk. King Edoard’s war sets her adrift too. 

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” he says softly. “Thank you though.” Before she can look back to her book, he continues. “Mother would like to speak with you.” 

She looks a little curious now, but there’s no worry there. Sometimes their mother likes to say goodnight in the evenings or to sit and spend time with them. There’s nothing alarming about being called to see her so late in the day.

She nods and stands, her ladies following suit. Louis steps back from the doorway to let them all pass on their way out. He doesn’t want to step into the library, for some reason. It feels like an intrusion of the soft space they’ve created together. Once they’re gone, Louis shifts his attention back to Harry, who’s returned to his book. It’s a dismissal, a fairly clear indication that he doesn’t care what else Louis might have to say. 

Louis keeps his voice gentle when he speaks. There is no room left for him to be callous, despite the defensive instinct that rises in him. He is not a victim here. “Prince Harry. May I steal you for a moment?” 

That earns him a frown from almost everyone in the room. He forces his face to remain clear. It wouldn’t do well for Thomas or Niall to notice that something’s wrong. 

Harry regards him coolly. “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

Once again, Louis swallows down the sting. “I’m afraid I have to insist.” 

Harry waits so long to react that Louis thinks he’s about to say no again, but after a moment Harry snaps his book shut, sets it aside and stands. He shoots Niall a look on his walk out, one that Louis tries not to analyse too much. 

As soon as Harry is walking towards him, Louis turns and begins to move further down the hallway. This isn’t a conversation to be had in the corridor. He listens to Harry’s footsteps behind him as he leads them down and around the corner to a small private study. 

Harry waits at the door instead of following Louis inside. 

Louis sighs. “Please, come in. And close the door.” 

If anything, it makes Harry look more suspicious. He steps inside, his eyes narrowed and watching Louis carefully. He leaves a fair distance between them when he closes the door. It’s almost like he expects Louis to attack him. What a bleak state of affairs. 

But now isn’t the time to worry about how sour their relationship is. 

“I have to tell you something,” Louis says. 

“Is it something else from the letters that I sent you?” Harry’s voice is cold. “Because if I’m honest, I’d rather not be reminded.” 

Does he truly think Louis would pull him aside like this just to taunt him? Christ. 

Louis can’t focus on that now. He shakes his head, hasty in his movements. “It’s not. Harry, it’s—”

Harry cuts him off. “You know, I wouldn’t have sent you anything if you hadn’t sent me your own letters in kind. You said the same things to me.” 

Louis flushes, remembering. “I know. Listen.” 

But Harry doesn’t. “I can’t wrap my head around it. I mean, if you wanted information surely there were a thousand other ways for you to get it. What was the benefit of tricking me? Of sending me the things you did?” 

This is not a conversation that Louis is ready to have. 

“That doesn’t matter now.” 

“Maybe not to you.” The way Harry looks at Louis is similar to the way one might look at manure stuck to their shoe. “You have the full picture and I’ve been given mere pieces. Surely you can explain—” 

Louis takes a deep breath and just says it. “We have reliable information that Sicea is preparing to launch an attack on Andras.” 

He watches as the fight flies from Harry, gone in an instant. His shoulders seem to deflate as if a physical blow has pushed all the air from his lungs, and he falls silent. For a moment, he simply stares at Louis, uncomprehending, before —

“What?” 

His voice is a whisper, too quiet with the space between them. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. “King Edoard has gathered a fleet of ships, and all our information tells us that he intends to sail to Andras as soon as they’re all in the water.” 

“Is this—is this a joke?” 

That knocks the breath clean out of Louis’ chest. 

So that’s what Harry thinks of him. He’s been wondering for so long, he’d thought it would feel better to know for sure. 

He was wrong. 

Louis swallows it down, shaking his head as slowly and seriously as he can. Harry doesn’t trust him, so he needs to make sure he’s as clear as possible. “No. It’s not a joke, Harry. I’m sorry.” 

It’s worse to watch Harry grow frantic. It starts with his head, tiny little movements like he’s looking for some physical answer that the room might offer him. His hands hang in the air a little, half up but for no reason at all. It takes an age for his gaze to land on Louis again. 

“King Edoard doesn’t have a fleet!” He’s desperate, and Louis hates it. 

He tries to stay calm. “He does now. He’s built one, he did it in secret. No one knew.” 

Harry gapes at him. “How?” 

“We don’t know yet.” 

“What does he want?” 

Louis resists the urge to reach out and take hold of Harry’s arms, to try and force him to stand still. That’s not his place. It’s also the last thing in the world Harry would want. He takes another deep breath. “We think it has to do with the iron mines.” 

“We give him iron!” 

“I know.”

He’s so desperate. It’s hard not to think what Louis would feel in his shoes. If it were his mother and his sisters trapped oceans away, an unknown force bearing down on them. He’d want to swim the seas himself just to get there to protect them. 

He can see the same thing all over Harry’s face. 

“Then what—how, how do you even _know_ this?” 

“We have men in Sicea who made the report,” Louis says. “They’re trustworthy.” 

Harry’s face turns vicious. “Oh, right,” he sneers. “You’re going to tell me who to trust.” 

Louis deserves that. He wants to feel sorry for himself, but he can’t deny it. All of this anger, all of this vitriol, it’s of his own making. Still, it’s doing nothing to keep Harry calm. “I know that you and I aren’t — haven’t made the best start of things. But I wouldn’t lie about this. I wouldn’t. And these are good men.” 

Harry huffs. He spins away, walks towards the door and then abruptly turns again, back to face Louis. 

“Have you—?” he stops, squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “Does my mother know?” 

They’d talked about that briefly in the meeting room. What was Queen Anne’s level of readiness? Did she have spies who could read the signs in the same way as Ruben’s men? If she didn’t, how could they tell her? 

_‘We will not ask Sicea to hold back,’_ Johannah had said. ‘ _But there is no honour in a secret attack. If we can warn Queen Anne of what is coming, we will._ ’ 

But that leads to more questions. Which of their riders will they send? What is the risk to their lives if they’re intercepted? And if they are captured, carrying such a message, what would King Edoard do to them and Ryde? 

Louis can’t tell Harry any of that. 

“We don’t know,” he says. “We plan on sending a message as soon as we can be sure the path is safe—”

“You haven’t already?” 

He’s so angry that Louis rushes to cut him off. “Not _yet_ , Harry, but you have to understand—” 

He’s not successful. Harry takes a step forward, pushing into Louis’ space. He’s not so much taller than Louis, but angry like this he fills the space between them. “ _Christ,_ ” he hisses. “So this is just a game to you? 

It would be nice if Harry stopped saying things like that. 

“Harry.” Louis sighs, “no.” 

Harry lifts his hand, waving a finger in Louis’ face. He holds it between them like it’s a weapon. “Don’t — I didn’t tell you to call me Harry. I don’t want you to.” 

Louis winces. Harry probably sees it, but he can’t do anything about that. He holds his own hands up between them, placatingly. He shouldn’t have dropped Harry’s title. That was a silly mistake. “Okay, I’m sorry. _Prince_ Harry. Your mother may have more information than we do.” 

“Or she may have less.”

Louis takes another breath. It seems he’s only going to make it through this conversation by a measure of deep breaths. 

“Your mother is as much a player as mine.” There’s no reason to underestimate Queen Anne outside of Harry’s panic. Louis is sure she knew long before they did of King Edoard’s plans. “She will have people reporting back to her the same as we do.” 

But Harry sneers at him again. “That’s your guess. It’s a hope, something to reassure you that your refusal to act isn’t condemning my people.” 

Heat erupts under Louis’ skin. He squares his shoulders. “I will not send my men out in front of Edoard’s force without all the information I can find. I won’t risk their lives.” 

Harry moves a little out of Louis’ space now, but only to throw his hands in the air. “But you’ll risk ours?” He laughs derisively. “A Ryde life is worth more than an Andran one, is that right?” 

Louis clenches his fists, an outlet for the rising anger in him. “Of course not.” 

“Then how else have you come to this decision? Explain it to me.” 

It’s almost laughable, the way that Louis has to justify the same decisions that he’d fought so angrily against less than an hour before. It feels like another test. But his mother’s choices are Louis’ choices — the choices of their country — and Louis will not apologise for them. 

“I am the crown prince of Ryde,” Louis says. “My allegiance must always be to Ryde. How many of my people should die to deliver the message? What number of deaths would you deem suitable?” 

Harry stumbles. “That’s not — it’s not about it being _suitable_.” 

“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” Louis won’t be cruel this time, he _won’t,_ but he will be clear. “You want me to send a messenger to Andras with no thought to where Sicea’s fleet may be. What if my man is taken? Would you ask me to send another? A third? How about a hundred messengers? What value would you give to their lives?” 

Harry doesn’t even seem to hear it. “You are refusing to help my people.” 

“That’s not true. We will help — we will send a message as soon as we can. But I will not send my men to their deaths, and that’s what it would be if I sent them tonight. We don’t have enough information.” 

When Louis finishes, the only sound left between them is Harry’s heavy breathing. He waits and watches Louis for a long moment, thinking, then he asks, “And what will you do when the message has been sent?” 

That throws Louis off. He frowns, confused. “We’ll wait for the reply.” 

Harry looks impossibly annoyed with him. He scowls. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean here, your armies, when do they march?” 

Just like that, Louis remembers his job is less than half done. There’s so much more bad news still to deliver. 

There’s no point in delaying it. “They don't.” 

Harry stills. “What?” 

Louis focuses on a spot on the wall behind Harry’s head. It’s easier to keep his face clear that way. “We won’t be deploying our armies. We do not have a large enough force to fight back Sicea. Too many would die.” 

It’s almost more unnerving to see Harry stay quiet. He is as still as a picture, save for the muscles in his jaw that jump with barely concealed fury. When he speaks, his voice is deadly quiet. “You won’t even fight?” 

Louis keeps his head straight, determined. “I must protect my people.” 

Harry erupts. “Andras _is_ your people!” And then he is moving again, pacing the length of the room like a wild animal, cornered. “That’s what this entire wedding is all about, uniting our two nations. We’re allies now. An attack on Andras is as good as an attack on Ryde. But at the first sign of trouble, you turn tail and hide!” 

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Louis realises he’s done this all wrong. The wedding. How could he have forgotten to mention the wedding? 

“Harry, there’s something else.” 

Harry barks a loud, dry laugh. “No, let me guess. You’ve written to Sicea to wish them luck on their journey. Another way to keep your conscience clear.”

Defensiveness rises in Louis the same way that it did on the night of the banquet. Harry has a nasty habit of blaming Louis’ country for Louis’ mistakes, and it makes him impossibly angry. He tamps the feeling down, though. He can’t risk lashing out again. 

Harry doesn’t show any signs of stopping. “This way we can all go to war and you can feel happy in your homes that you did the best you could.” 

Louis doesn’t have time to figure out the best way to tell him. Whatever method he chooses, Harry’s reaction will be the same. 

“The wedding is off.” 

Again, Harry falters. “What?” 

“We’re postponing the wedding.” Louis is sick of seeing him lost for words, so he rushes through it. The sooner he is finished, the sooner he can ensure Harry is back amongst his friends. That’s the best thing for him now. “Indefinitely. Until this can be resolved.” 

“You—” 

“You’ll stay here with us for the time being.” Guilt tugs at his chest, but he pushes it aside. He can’t guarantee that yet, but he will. He’ll make sure that Harry can stay in Ryde somehow. “I’ll make sure you’re not put in any danger.” 

Harry is silent again. This time it’s worse. He looks defeated, exhausted, as if all the fight has drained from him. It’s not a question when he says, “You’re breaking the engagement.” 

Louis nods. “Temporarily.” 

Harry shakes his head, looking down to the floor. His eyes are sad, disappointed. “You don’t break something temporarily, Louis. It’s either whole or it’s not. Once this is broken, it won’t be repaired.” 

He’ll make sure of it. That’s what the look in his eye says. 

“Nevertheless,” Louis says. “The decision has been made. I’m sorry.” 

Harry’s lip curls, annoyance, anger bleeding through his every pore. Louis hasn’t proved himself an ally to Harry, that much he knows. But to be looked at like an enemy, with such poison in Harry’s eyes, is something else entirely. 

“You’re a coward.” 

It’s cutting and it’s meant to be. Before, as recently as two weeks ago, Louis has risen to the very same bait. Tonight he steels himself against a similar reaction. There’s a reason that he attends meetings with his mother, that his mother would berate him in front of her advisors. It’s so that he can learn, learn to make the hard decisions and to put his people before his own emotions. 

Remembering that, it feels easy to say, “I’m not. I understand that I’ve done many things to you. Many unforgivable things. But I am not a coward, and Ryde is not hiding from this fight. We just need time to decide how best to go ahead.” 

Before he is halfway finished, Harry is shaking his head. “This is a war. You can’t set it aside and pick it back up when you’re ready.” 

“You’re right.” That catches Harry a little off guard, an advantage which Louis takes quick advantage of. He rushes on. “But I won’t walk my people into war with a blindfold on, Harry. You can’t ask me to.” 

It occurs to him, after he’s finished, that he’s forgotten Harry’s title again. This time Harry either doesn’t notice or has forgotten to care. He is too distracted, shifting again, looking around the room. It isn’t so much anger this time. Louis can see his eyes are shining. 

“I’ve already learnt not to ask you for anything.” 

He clearly means to be biting, but his voice cracks a little on the last word. 

Louis keeps his voice low, as soft as possible, but steadfast. “You have no reason to trust me, I understand that. But I will fix this, whether you believe me or not.” 

Harry doesn’t reply. With his head bowed, his body seems to rock a little, back and forth, like he still can’t decide exactly where he wants to move, where he wants to be. He’s finished with this conversation. 

And Louis has no more news to deliver.

“I am sorry this has happened,” Louis says by way of parting. “Would you like me to send Niall to find you?” 

Harry’s voice is wet when he replies. “Just go.” 

Louis goes. 

He shuts the door quietly behind himself. He’ll leave Harry alone for the moment. If he decides he wants company, he’s more than capable of finding his way back to the library. In the meantime, Louis has to think. 

_He will fix this._

It’s a foolish promise. Crown prince or no, Louis is still just one man. He has no way of controlling King Edoard, or of forcing him to call off his ships. 

But as Louis lingers with the thought, remembering how the words felt as they’d crossed Louis’ lips, he finds himself believing them. Louis has lied to Harry too many times. He won’t let this be another. 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The answers to Louis’ riddles are a candle, and a coin, respectively. 
> 
> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	5. Chapter 5

♚

The next month is the longest that Harry has ever lived. 

He takes it minute by minute, breath by breath, with a tightness in his chest that never loosens. Once Louis had told him, the first thing Harry does is tell Niall. He does it in a daze, too caught up in his panic and fear to spend time on softening the blow. Niall stumbles with the weight of the news. He asks all the same questions that Harry had. The answers are just as unsatisfactory as they were when Louis had given them. 

Harry can’t change them, though. He can only feel numb.

Numb and  _ angry.  _

That doesn’t go away. The next thing he has to do is look Charlotte in the eye when she returns from her meeting with her mother. Once again, she is a stranger to him. No longer his future or his fiancée. She’s now more his enemy than anything else. A member of a family that has thrown him aside. Then he has to look at Thomas, think of all the grand promises he’d made about making this country his own, and know that they were all for naught. 

So his life in Ryde is made up of moments. Little challenges, little battles that Harry has to fight to just get through the day. 

This morning is no different. He walks through the castle halls and keeps his gaze on the floor. It’s the only thing he can do to stop himself from glaring, from snapping at the first person who tries to speak to him.

Today, that’s Charlotte.

She meets him in the dining hall. They haven’t been sharing so many meals as they had when they were still engaged, but the food is only served in one place, so of course, their paths have crossed.

When she walks in and sees him there, she hesitates at the threshold. That, on its own, makes his skin crawl. What right does she have to feel uncomfortable around him? As far as she is concerned, she has finally been unburdened by him. Unshackled, from a marriage that her country no longer views as worthy. 

Whatever it is that has given her pause, she recovers fairly quickly and gathers her skirts to take the final steps inside. “Morning.”

Harry’s jaw clenches without him trying. It’s another battle to make himself smile, to try and make it genuine. “Good morning.”

She walks around the table and takes a seat opposite him. She sits down slowly, and Harry gets the distinct feeling she’s taking him in, cataloguing everything she sees. Finally, she asks, “Have you eaten anything?”

Harry purses his lips. He has food on his plate in front of him, but he hasn’t touched it. “I’m not feeling very hungry.”

Charlotte reaches slowly for some of the food sitting in the middle of the table. There’s some bread fresh from the bakery, and some butter and jams from the kitchen. She takes a little of each. “You haven’t been hungry much these days.”

She says it as casually as anything.

Harry’s eyes narrow, his anger flaring. He’s got a short wick these days. It doesn’t take anything to set him alight. “How would you know that?”

Maybe she’s fooled him this entire time, and she’s as much a spy as her brother. Nothing would surprise Harry anymore.

Charlotte doesn’t bat an eye, though. She begins to butter the bread. “Well, there’s this morning, and yesterday morning, and the morning before that.” Harry flushes at that. So he hasn’t had much of an appetite. Who would in his position? “And Louis said you didn’t eat anything at dinner last night.”

If anything has made him furious in the past weeks, it’s the thought of Louis Tomlinson. Harry has seen him around the castle, but on every occasion, he has made a point of turning and walking in the other direction. He doesn’t even want to share air with the man, let alone a room or a meal. Of course, it has been unavoidable at times. Dinners are the most difficult. The servants must have been given instructions that Harry not be allowed to eat in his rooms. There must be some concern that he’ll hide away there, plotting or scheming or doing something else that might hurt Ryde's interests. 

When Louis chooses the same time as Harry to eat, they sit in terse silence. Somehow, Louis is no less irritating when quiet than he is when he’s speaking. He watches Harry in the same way his sister does now, carefully taking notes on everything he sees. 

The worst is the pity, though. Louis looks at him pitifully, as if he has nothing to do with the situation that Harry is currently trapped in. As if he’s as helpless as Harry is. 

It’s detestable. 

Viciously, more to prove a point than anything, Harry rips into a piece of the bread he’s put on his plate. “Your brother needs to mind his own business.”

Charlotte sighs, not attempting to hide her disappointment. “He’s simply concerned.” 

Harry laughs derisively. “Oh, I’m sure.” 

It’s satisfying to see her tense at that. She sets her butter knife down gently, but the movement is tight. Everything about her is poised, restrained. “It’s alright for you to be worried, Harry,” she says, “but you still need to eat.” 

“How can I?” Harry doesn’t even bother eating the bread in his hands. He knows that Charlotte will notice, but he can’t force himself to do it. It’s all tasted like ash since he’d heard the news. It feels too frivolous considering everything else. “I haven’t heard from my mother or my sister since King Edoard set sail. And you won’t let me send them any more letters.”

They had let him send one, a few days after Louis had delivered the news. He’d found Harry in his rooms and told him they had decided to send a messenger with a letter from Queen Johannah. That messenger could easily carry a letter from Harry as well. They’d received no response.

Charlotte looks at him sadly. “You know how long it takes to travel to Andras.” 

It had taken Harry two months to make the same journey, but he’d been sailing against the wind, and they’d been caught in two storms that had swept them off their path. In good weather like they’ve had recently, the travel time is cut in half. 

“Your messenger should have arrived there by now.” 

“Yes,” Charlotte says. “But there’s no way to predict when he’ll be able to return, or how long it will take him. We don’t even know if your mother will send him back.” 

“Why shouldn’t she?” Suspicion flares in him, for possibly the thousandth time in the past few weeks. Had Louis sent his man as a spy, rather than a messenger? 

Charlotte looks tired when she says, “It might not be safe. We don’t know what sort of progression King Edoard’s force might have made.” 

A hollow feeling in his chest, Harry imagines his country surrounded by ships. It’s an impossible thought  — Andras is far too big for that to ever happen. No, it’s far more likely that King Edoard would target one of the southern coastal towns first, then slowly make his way north to Vierres. 

“The point was to get our letters to your mother,” Charlotte says. “Not to receive anything in return.” 

There’s nothing like this feeling. It’s like air is trapped in his chest, the same way he’s trapped in this castle. He needs to do  _ something. _

“What hope do we have without more information?” He wants to make a point, to make it clear to Charlotte that she needs to understand why this is so important, but halfway through it turns into a genuine question. If she knows more than he does, if she can prove that they don’t need more, then he wants to know it. 

She doesn’t have the answer he wants, though. “The same hope we’ve had this far. There’s no point in sending messenger after messenger without hearing anything.” 

Harry leans back, slumping his weight against the tall back of his chair. “So we sit here and do nothing?” 

It’s unthinkable, that he has to just wait. The risk to his family is so high that their lives are in danger. And he’s just  _ stuck _ here, doing nothing. 

He hates the way Charlotte looks at him. “Yes,” she says. “For now that’s all that we can do. You know that Edoard’s force is coming upon them. You also know that the life of any messenger we send is at risk if they cross paths with him. Especially if they’re carrying a letter from you.” 

“So let me go,” Harry says. He’s asked them to for weeks now, and the answer has always stayed the same. He can’t stop fighting his case though, insisting with them.  _ Pleading. _ “You don’t have to risk anyone.” 

“We’d be risking you!” 

Harry almost laughs at that. She looks upset at the idea, and he can’t fathom why. “Why should you care? I’m not going to be your husband anymore, remember?” 

He watches her flinch and remorse bites at him. “Harry,” she says. “You know that wasn’t my choice.” 

It’s true, she had as little say in their union as he did, but he can’t look at her and fail to see her brother, her mother, who did make the decision. 

“I know that,” he tells her. “But you’re relieved nonetheless.” 

She shakes her head, her hurt hardening into something a little more reminiscent of her mother’s stern eye. “Don’t do that,” she says, her voice harsh. “I know that I was nervous, even a little reluctant. But don’t stand there and pretend you’ve been thrilled to be here. I’m not a fool. You were in no rush to meet me at the altar.” 

Harry flushes, angry again. “I wasn’t reluctant —!” 

She looks every inch her brother when her face turns unkind. It’s the same look Louis had worn at the banquet. “Yes, you were. I saw it in your face as soon as you learned I wasn’t the author of your letters.” 

Harry feels his face go hot. “I don’t — ” he starts, suddenly desperate to avoid her eye. “I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Fine by me,” she says. “But don’t walk around this castle as if you’re the only person who’s been wronged.” 

The reminder of the letters makes Harry hot underneath his collar. He’s done his best to keep them from his mind, hiding the small chest away in the back of the cupboard where his clothes are hung. Thinking of them stings, carrying with it a sense of shame that he’s become almost used to lately. It doesn’t get easier, each time he feels it. It only reminds him of how easily he’d been deceived. At how he’d fallen so thoroughly for a deception, exposing himself bare while Louis surely laughed on the other end. 

He doesn’t like that Charlotte even knows about them, let alone feels comfortable throwing them in his face. 

“What pain does it cause you for the wedding to be called off?” he asks. “As far as I can see, all your mother has done is untether you from a country that she’s decided is too weak.” 

Charlotte’s nostrils flare. “So I should be pleased then, is that right? To be free again to the highest bidder?” 

Harry snorts. “It’s another marriage you’re worried about?” 

“I thought you might understand what it is to be traded like a cow at market.” Her cheeks are pink now, her eyes round and bright. She’s angry with him, offended, but more than that she’s upset. “That you of all people would know what it’s like to be robbed of choice.” 

Harry could almost laugh. “Robbed of choice?” he echoes, incredulous. “Charlotte, it’s you who doesn’t understand. I’ve always known I would marry for my country. I’m sure you have too. What I haven’t been prepared for is being held, trapped in a foreign land, and forced to sit and wait to hear if my family is dead.” 

That’s what it has come down to. The next message they hear, whether it’s from the man they’ve sent to Andras, or from one of Louis’ many spies, could be that Andras has fallen. That his mother or Gemma is dead. That he has no one, and no country left. 

“And on top of that,” he goes on, leaning forward with his anger now, “the country we knew to be our ally, the family who was supposed to become my own, has abandoned us.” 

Charlotte huffs. “We haven’t  _ abandoned _ you—”

“— Your mother called off the wedding!” 

Charlotte rolls her eyes so violently her head moves with it. She shakes her hair away from her shoulders as if she needs it out of her way so that she can truly fight with him. “Of course she did,” she snaps. “Your country is going to war, Harry. Do you want to bind me to that? My people?” 

“You were already bound,” Harry says. “We’ve been engaged since you were born. Years, Charlotte. And your mother threw that away in an instant.” 

She looks at him like he’s a fool. Her words are searing. “Given the choice between our people and yours, my mother will always stand by Ryde. Your mother would do the same for your country. Don’t be naive.” 

Harry shuts his jaw and stares down at the table. It’s solid oak, a dark timber, and just like everything else in this damn castle, entirely foreign to him. He can’t call her a liar. She’s right. Given the same choice, his mother would value Andras over anything else. He’d probably do the same. He wants to say that there didn’t have to be a choice — that they were already one people because Harry was already here — but he can’t say that either. They aren’t married. He isn’t her husband, and he has no claim over the people of Ryde. 

He sighs. 

It’s only then that Charlotte softens again. She takes a deep breath, clearly calming herself, and says, “I understand that you’re upset. You have every right to be. It’s awful, what’s happening. But you can’t hide away and refuse to eat, or throw accusations at me because you’re frustrated.” 

He keeps his head down. His food is still all there on his plate, untouched. It turns his stomach looking at it. 

“I should be with them,” he says quietly. 

He wants Charlotte to say, ‘ _ I know _ ’. He wants her to understand, to maybe even figure out how to help him get there. She doesn’t.

“Why?” she asks instead. “What good is there in your being in danger too?” 

“I could help them. I could fight with them.”

Harry isn’t the best fighter. He’s not even a very good one, but it’s not about what he could contribute in battle. It’s about just being there, at their side, at this moment when they need his support the most. 

The table is narrow enough that Charlotte can reach across and gently settle her hand over Harry’s.  It’s the first time she’s touched him in the entire time that they’ve known each other.  “Your mother needs an heir, Harry.  You’re here, you’re safe, and that guarantees Andras a future if the worst should happen.” 

He can’t help it. Tears well behind his eyes at the thought. A part of him wants to hide them  — it’s not becoming of a prince to cry  — but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t care anymore. 

“If the worst should happen then I should be at their side.” 

Charlotte squeezes his hand. “And if you were all to die? Then what? Would you be happy to leave your country in King Edoard’s hands?” 

Harry scrunches his eyes shut. “Of course not,” he says hoarsely. “But —”

“You need to think like a leader, Harry.  We’ve given your mother one less thing to worry about as she prepares to go to war. I won’t deny our choices have been political. We do not have the luxury of putting politics aside. But that doesn’t mean that we have plotted against you by any means. We’re not your enemy. Please stop treating me like one.” 

He takes a deep breath, her words washing over him. It lets him think a little clearer. “I’m.” He doesn’t know what he can say. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have...” 

He doesn’t finish. She doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s just.” Harry pulls his hand away from hers, pushing it through his hair. “Can’t you imagine what you would do if our places were reversed?” 

She brings her hand back to her side. Her anger is gone now. “I can, and it hurts me just to think about it. But if we were to race impulsively to Andras’ defence, then my country might soon be in the same position as yours. That’s why our hands are so tied.” 

She’s right, but he can’t say it. He won’t say it. 

There has to be something that they can do to help. Something that they haven’t thought of yet, that could still save Harry’s country and his family. 

He pushes himself to his feet. “I need to —” He doesn’t know what he needs, just that it’s something. Something that he won’t find here. “I should go.” 

He’s halfway to the door when Charlotte says, “Harry. You still haven’t eaten anything.” 

Harry pauses for just a moment. He glances back at her. She’s still seated, just across the table from his plate, which is still full of food. There’s nothing in the world that could get him to sit back with her, now. He’ll eat when he’s figured this out. 

When he knows what he’s got to do next. 

♚

He’s left alone for one day.  _ One day  _ before Queen Johannah comes to find him. 

“Ah, Harry.” 

She greets him casually as if they’ve simply run into each other by chance. They’re in the halls right outside his rooms, though, and her quarters are on the opposite side of the castle. She has no reason to be here, except to seek him out. 

She’s the Queen and Harry knows better than to accuse her. He bows his head instead. “Hello, Your Majesty.” 

She has two guards at her side, both staring straight ahead, ignoring him. They’re tall, and she looks small between them. Smaller still considering the armour they wear, the way that it makes their shoulders and their arms look twice their real size. 

“How have you been faring?” she asks. 

He folds his arms across his chest. “Would you like me to answer honestly?” 

She considers him for a moment, a light smile on her face. “Where possible, Prince Harry, I’d prefer that you were always honest with me.” 

A month ago he might have exercised more caution with her. Today, he smiles grimly. “Not very well then, Your Majesty.” 

Everything that Johannah does, she does slowly and carefully. Each move is measured. She nods that way now. “I see. And is there anything that I can do that might improve your mood?” 

It’s all so transparent. Anything that she could do for him, she has already denied. They both know it. He won’t ignore that she’s making an empty offer. 

“Let me sail to Andras,” he says. 

Of course, her smile tightens. “Ah,” she says. “Unfortunately that is not within my power.” 

“You’re the Queen.” Harry just stops himself from shaking his head at her. “Everything is within your power.” 

Johannah tilts her head just to the side. Her smile shifts a little, from a sterile political thing to something a little sadder. “Oh, I do wish that were true.” 

It’s a touch too condescending for Harry’s taste. “Isn’t it?” 

“No, it isn’t. I’m afraid if you think that it is, you don’t have a good understanding of what it is to be a ruler.” 

Harry flushes at the rebuke. She’s beholden to her people, she’s saying. As if he hasn’t heard that a thousand times already. Of course, he knows that she has to think of her people first. That doesn’t mean that her hands are tied. Or that she’s caught in the same way that he is. 

“There are some things that you and I need to discuss,” she says. She doesn’t seem to have any desire to linger with Harry’s embarrassment. “Do you have a moment?” 

He can’t very well deny her, so he says, “Yes.” 

He gestures down the hall behind him. One of the rooms he’s been given is a sitting room of sorts. It’s where he and Niall have been playing chess when they’re lost for anything else to do. There are some books there also, and three small chairs for the occupants to sit in and relax. It seems as good a place as any to speak with the Queen. 

She doesn’t seem to care that the room isn’t grand. She takes the seat closest to the wall, and motions for Harry to take the seat next to her. The guards move to either side of the door, effectively guarding the entrance. 

Harry wonders if they’re worried about anything outside, or if they’re here solely to keep him in. 

Johannah leans forward in her seat, resting her elbow on the armrest of the chair. “I need to speak with you about where we go from here.” 

Harry frowns. He can’t be as emotional in this conversation as he was with Charlotte. He’d been unkind to her, vicious in a way that she didn’t deserve.

He can’t make that mistake with the Queen. 

“We have somewhere to go from here?” He’d thought this was it. His new normal was to be here, unable to speak with his family, waiting for news on their health until the war was done. 

Johannah nods. “Yes.” 

Hope sparks in Harry’s chest. “Do you plan on joining the fight?” 

He knows it’s foolish as soon as the question leaves him, and he regrets letting it. He wants her to see him as an equal or at the very least a player in this game. Questions like that won’t help. 

He’s not surprised when she shakes her head. “No. Prince Harry, you have to understand—”

Harry breathes harshly through his nose. He cuts her off, which also isn’t the wisest choice, but he can’t just sit there and listen to the same reasoning again and again. “You can’t risk your people. Believe me, I’ve heard that already.” 

Johannah waits for a beat, watching him. Then she says, “It’s the truth.” 

Harry keeps his head level, looks her directly in the eye. “It comes at the cost of my people. You’ll forgive me for pressing.” 

Slowly, always slowly, she nods. “I will, but my mind will not change. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.” 

_ Unlikely,  _ Harry thinks. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

She sighs. “When I say we speak about where we go from here, I mean more specifically what steps we need to take for you to stay here.” 

Where hope had been, only moments before, trepidation begins to creep in. He can’t think of any steps left, save for his being quiet and accepting his fate. He swallows. “Very well.” 

Johannah smiles tightly. “Charlotte tells me that you haven’t been eating.” 

Harry’s face goes hot. Christ, Charlotte has been reporting back on him? Of course, instantly he feels like a fool for thinking she wouldn’t. 

He just stops himself from sneering at the Queen. “I haven’t had much of an appetite,” he says. “I think you would find it hard to eat with the lives of your family on the line.” 

“I would,” Johannah says. “I certainly would. Despite that, I must ask that you find a way. You need your health. We all need you to be healthy.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. It doesn’t seem so outlandish that they would want him to stay healthy here, but for the Queen to come to him and deliver the request herself? What was going on here? 

She must see the question on his face. “I cannot very well tell your mother that you’re here safe if you’re wasting away from starvation, can I?”

“You’ve been corresponding with my mother?” 

Johannah shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. But I expect to in the future, and I would like to be able to give her good news.” 

There’s something more here that Harry hasn’t grasped yet. He can feel it in the way that Johannah is watching him. She wouldn’t have stationed two guards at the door for no reason. 

Warily, he says, “I’ll be fine.” 

There’s such a tightness behind her eyes. The same look he’s come to recognise from Charlotte, and even Louis to an extent. She’s tired. “I appreciate your reassurance, but I’ll need more than that.” 

Harry shifts in his chair. He isn’t comfortable and he won’t be, not until he figures out what’s going on here. “What more can I give you?”

“A promise, Prince Harry. That you’ll take care of yourself. The future of my family and my country depends on it.” 

Now Harry is truly out of his depth. What is she talking about? 

“Why would my health affect you? Or Ryde, for that matter?” Harry asks, frowning. Even if Johannah had to tell his mother that he wasn’t in good condition, she would never simply assume Johannah was responsible. “My mother would never attack you.” 

She’s watching him so carefully it’s unnerving at this point. 

“King Edoard might.” 

Now even more confused, Harry can’t help himself. He may have to sound foolish now, just to make sure that he understands. “What?  You have given King Edoard every assurance that you will be impartial in this fight. What reason would he have to attack you? 

“If he asked for you only to find you in bad health.” 

And that’s it. 

Harry would very much like these conversations to stop, the ones that leave him feeling winded, void of breath. This time he goes almost dizzy with it, as his brain catches up to her meaning. 

“What?” 

Johannah looks at him with a frown, as if she’s confused by his reaction. “If King Edoard wins the war,” she says. “You need to be just as healthy in that scenario as you must with your mother.” 

A healthy pawn, she means. A healthy tool, something for her to bargain with if the day ever came. Still, he can’t force himself to say it. “You — you plan to —?” 

Her mouth goes a little round. “Oh dear,” she says, and she’s still so damn calm, “Louis didn’t tell you?” 

He’s not sure why he’s surprised. Of course,  _ of course _ , Louis has something to do with this. Has he not been the hidden figure behind every awful thing that’s happened to Harry in this godforsaken country? 

“ If King Edoard wins the fight against your mother, he will in all likelihood demand we pass you over. I’m sure you understand that if it comes to that, I must protect my people.” 

Harry’s blood feels cold in his veins. “So that’s why you’re keeping me here. As a hostage.” 

She looks sad again. “First and foremost, you’re our guest.” 

But Harry’s had enough. He shakes his head. He feels as if he could spit, poison filling him to his core. “Don’t patronise me,” he snaps. “You’ve just said so, clear as day. You intend to barter me for your country’s safety.” 

She nods, solemnly, shamelessly. “If I have to.” She dares to reach for Harry’s arm as if she could reassure him. “It’s not what I want, Harry, but I have to consider every option.” 

Harry snatches his arm away. He stands, and the guards stiffen but don’t move. They seem comfortable waiting for the word from Johannah to act. Harry would never attack her, but he can’t stand to be near her. 

Standing now, adrenaline rushes him. He doesn’t feel scared at all to turn around and say, “Your country has proved weaker than I could ever have fathomed. In every possible way, you have failed. As a nation and an ally.” 

Johannah stays seated, very still in her spot. “Prince Harry,” she says placatingly. 

Harry won’t hear it. “ How can you even look me in the eye and tell me this? I’m supposed to be your ally. My mother sent me here to bind our countries together. And yet here you are, ready to sell me to the highest bidder.” 

It feels good, to tell her so to her face. Charlotte and Louis do not have the power she does, aren’t responsible for the decisions she makes.

Her face turns stern. “I will not put my people at risk.” 

Harry laughs. He can’t help it, he laughs out loud. “Oh, I know!” His voice is loud too. “Believe me your children are well versed with that particular party line. But it’s meaningless. I thought your nation was powerful. Imagine my disappointment to learn that instead, it’s filled to the brim with cowardice.” 

Finally, Johannah stands. She smoothes her hands over the skirts of her gown. “There is bravery in retreat, Prince Harry. You have yet to learn that.” 

Harry shakes his head, lets his voice come down an octave. “I’m sure you believe that,” he says. “I’m sure that’s what lets you sleep at night.” 

“I can see that you’re upset.” 

It’s the most foolish thing he’s heard yet. He shoots her an incredulous look. “Did you imagine that I wouldn’t be?” 

She doesn’t answer. She just lifts her skirts so that she can move towards the door. “We’ll speak again when you’ve calmed down.” 

The guards bracket her immediately,  their faces still totally impassive. She doesn’t wait for Harry to say goodbye, simply leads them out of the room and swiftly down the halls. 

Harry watches them go, steel in his blood.

There’s no time left to think. He needs a plan. 

♚

Harry can’t say exactly how long he stays in his rooms, thinking. The sun is high in the sky by the time he comes out of his thoughts, which means it’s been hours at least. And even with all that time, he doesn’t come up with anything, nothing defined except for one singular thought. 

He needs to get out of this country. 

So he finds Niall. 

Niall’s rooms are close to his so it doesn’t take long to find him. He’s sitting near the window, writing in a journal when Harry arrives. When he looks up he smiles. 

It vanishes quickly. 

“We can’t stay here.” Harry is sure he wasn’t followed, and he didn’t pass anyone on his way, but he still checks the hall behind him. He steps further into the room and closes the large oak door. 

“What is it?” Niall shuts his journal with a snap. “Has something else happened?” 

Christ, Harry thinks. How does he summarise exactly what has happened? 

“I’ve just had a visit from the Queen,” Harry says. He doesn’t want to sit down, feels too frantic for that, so he crouches down on his knee and gets close to Niall that way instead. “She is keeping me as a pawn, to placate my mother or King Edoard. She’ll hand me over to whoever wins.” 

Niall goes pale, his eyes round. “Christ. She told you that?” 

Harry nods. “She plans to keep me here until my worth is decided. If my family dies, then she’ll have a card to play with Edoard. And if they survive, she can tell my mother that she kept me safe the whole time.” 

For a moment, Niall is lost for words. He looks as overwhelmed as Harry had felt when he’d first heard it. “I can’t believe she’d give you to Edoard.” 

Harry is far past that. As disgusted as Harry is by their disregard for the alliance between their countries, he’s had time enough to think on the move itself. Perversely, he understands it. Sacrifice a pawn to save a King and all that. As they keep on saying, their country must come first. 

That doesn’t mean Harry has to sit still and let it happen. 

“At least she was honest about it. It’s more than I can say for her son.” 

“Louis?” Niall’s frown deepens. “You think he knew?” 

“I know he did. She told me herself, she thought he’d told me already.” 

That’s something that’s played at the back of his mind since his conversation with the Queen. Why would Louis go to the effort of telling Harry everything else, then save that little piece of information for himself? The only thing Harry can think is that it’s another one of his schemes. 

Niall’s eye twitches a little. “What a snake.” 

Harry nods. “His mother, too. We’re in a pit of vipers, Niall, and we have to get out while we still can.” 

“I’m not sure if that time hasn’t already passed,” Niall says. “The Queen’s closed the bay. She gave orders weeks ago that no ships sail without her permission.” 

“We could sneak aboard one that’s already got the go-ahead to sail?” 

Niall shakes his head at the suggestion. “If you vanish from the castle, it’s the first place she’ll look.” 

It doesn’t discourage Harry. This is the most alive he’s felt in weeks. His heartbeat is thundering, his mind working desperately for a solution to this problem. There has to be one. 

“Could we go by land?” 

They know where the stables are, and they’re familiar with two of the horses already. Their trip with Thomas has shown them the route down to the lower town, and from there it would simply be a matter of heading  —

“We can’t go north,” Niall says. “The only route I know of is through Sicea. Obviously, that isn’t an option.” 

Harry bites his lip and braces himself on the armrest of Niall’s chair. His toes ache with the way that he’s crouching, but he doesn’t dare put space between them. They can only speak at a whisper. The conversation they’re having is grounds for them both to be thrown in the dungeon. 

“Maybe it is?” Harry says, after a beat. “It’s the last place they’d expect us to go.” 

The idea of riding through Sicea is incredibly unappealing, but if it’s their only option then Harry won’t be the one to stop them. In the course of one conversation, Ryde has become just as dangerous to him and his family. 

If Queen Johannah were to change her mind and hand him to King Edoard before the war is done, Harry doesn’t want to think about what his mother might do to get him back. 

But Niall is already shaking his head. “No, Harry,” he says. “There’s a good reason they wouldn’t look for us there. Riding into enemy territory is  — it’s not a good idea. We can’t run from the risk of Queen Johannah handing you over to Sicea, just to do it ourselves. And if King Edoard captures you before the fighting is done, it will incapacitate your mother.” 

Harry presses a hand to his forehead. “Christ.” 

“I’m sorry,” Niall says quickly. “There’s got to be another way.” 

“No, you’re right,” Harry says, already nodding. “There is. There has to be. And I won’t put you at risk.” 

Niall makes a face. “Don’t you worry about me. Where you go, I go.” 

It’s truly the best place to be in the world; at Niall’s side. His company has been one of the only things to slow Harry’s panic since Louis had told him about King Edoard’s plan. It’s the same again now, a warmth spreading in him that calms his pulsing heart a little. 

Harry takes hold of Niall’s forearm and squeezes, the only way he knows how to say thank you. Niall’s smile says he understands. 

“We could try to ride south?” Harry says. “There might be a smaller town in Ryde that will launch a ship despite the ban?” 

Again, Niall shakes his head. “Even if they do, we’d never convince them to sail to Andras. Everyone knows that King Edoard is sailing there now.” 

Harry knows that desperation is edging his words now, but the rush of finally acting is still there, pushing him. “We could take a ship ourselves?” 

“And sail it how?” Niall looks truly sorry to be shooting Harry’s ideas down like this, but that doesn’t stop him. “We can’t sail a ship just the two of us. And even if it were possible, we wouldn’t even know where to start.” 

Harry leans his head forward and thumps it against the wood of the chair. “There has to be another way.” 

There has to be. There  _ has to be.  _

Then his head jerks up. Niall jumps with the suddenness of it. “What about —” Harry pauses, and his thoughts leap wildly through his head. “We could find help.” 

Niall frowns. “Help?” 

“Surely we have allies here, secreted away.” He can’t believe he hasn’t thought of it before. “ Spies in this country the same way they have spies in ours.” 

They must know that Harry is in Haverhill. And there must be a way that he can get in touch with them. If he and Niall can get some feelers out and spread the word  —

“We do,” Niall says. 

Harry gapes at him. “You know them?”

“I don’t know them,” Niall says, “but I know of them. One of them, I mean. Your sister, before we left, she told me the name of a man in her employ, if things were to go wrong.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me!” Harry’s voice gets too loud for a second, caught up entirely in his excitement, but he hastily hushes himself. It’s also a stupid question. It doesn’t matter at all why Niall didn’t tell him. What’s more important is, “Christ, Niall, do you remember the name?” 

Niall’s nodding so quickly his head bobs with it. It’s almost funny, and for the first time in weeks, Harry wants to laugh and  _ feel _ it. 

“I do,” Niall says. “He lives in the lower town. His name is Zayn.” 

_ Zayn, _ Harry thinks. It’s as if hope has been given a name, and now Harry knows it. His head is almost spinning with relief. Now they just need to find him. 

“Do you know where he lives?” 

“Gemma gave me the directions,” Niall says, and Harry could almost fall over from the happiness that’s filling him. He doesn’t, but only because he’s holding onto the armrest with everything he has. “I can find him.” 

“And you think he can help?” 

Niall stands then, and suddenly the pressure Harry’s putting on the side of the chair is too much. He lets go before he pulls it over and stands as well. It feels like he’s standing up a new man, a stranger from the person he’d woken up as. 

“Gemma said that if anything went wrong, we should seek him out. She has to have said that for a reason.” 

“Okay.” Harry reaches out and grabs Niall’s shoulders, more to stop himself from moving around than to stop Niall from doing anything. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to focus. They can’t let this last, golden opportunity slip through his fingers. “Okay, you have to find him.” 

Niall nods. “I will.” 

“Go. Go now. If you can’t come back, send me a letter and I’ll come to you.” They still have some servants of their own in this castle, some people who would secret a letter in and do so with their heads down. 

Niall doesn’t waste another minute. He grabs his coat and runs out the door, his eyes alight with hope. 

They’ll make this work, Harry thinks. They have to. 

♚

The knock at Harry’s door comes long after the sun has set. 

He’s spent the rest of the day in his rooms but never sitting still. He’s packed a small travel bag in case Niall sends word and sorted through all his things to make sure that nothing valuable is left behind. He leaves the letters where they are  — they’re the only thing he avoids in the entire room. He doesn’t want to look at those, nor does he want to bring them with him. They’re just another thing to leave behind in this damn country. 

He starts pacing when the sky grows dark and only stops when someone raps at the door. 

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

He freezes and watches the door. Niall doesn’t come through, but neither does a servant. He listens for a moment but hears nothing. After a minute of silence, he tentatively approaches the door. 

There’s no one there, but there is a letter on the stones at his feet. 

He picks it up and unrolls it. It’s a tiny piece of parchment, tied up with a white ribbon. 

_ Meet me in the courtyard. Midnight.  _

His heart rate hasn’t slowed since Niall’s departure, but it picks up speed as he reads. This can only mean that Niall’s been successful, in some way. There’s just under an hour left until midnight. Harry’s not sure why he’d choose the courtyard for them to meet, but he won’t question it. He’s sure Niall will have a good reason. 

And if he couldn’t sit still before, it’s nothing compared to how he feels now. 

He stays away from the window that overlooks the courtyard. If someone were there and caught him constantly glancing down they would certainly be suspicious. He can’t risk someone raising the alarm now. The stakes are too high. This is his last chance. 

When there are just a few minutes left before midnight, Harry pulls on his sturdier pair of boots and his thickest riding coat. He lifts his small travel bag over his shoulder and then begins to creep down the narrow stone staircase. 

It’s late enough that he doesn’t run into any servants. They’ll all be asleep by now, trying to get a rest in before they have to wake early to start the morning again tomorrow. He has no idea who else might be up, snooping around, so he stays as quiet as possible. He can’t be caught with his belongings all stowed into one case like this. It’ll give him away immediately. 

Once he’s in the courtyard itself it gets a little easier. They’ve let the trees and bushes grow thick, a groomed representation of the wilderness of Ryde, just outside the city borders. It lends itself to secrecy, so Harry hides in the shadows and creeps into the depth of the greenery. It’s dark, but the moon is out which should give him enough light to find Niall. 

He’s squinting into the darkness when he hears a bush rustle across the way. He tenses, pulling further back into the shadows, just in case. 

It’s the right move. His breath freezes in his chest when he sees Louis step out into the moonlight. 

No.  _ No, no, no.  _

Louis will ruin everything. If Louis sees Niall  — or, god forbid, Gemma’s spy  — they’re done for. Any hope of escape will be gone in an instant. 

For a moment Harry is angry. What the hell is Louis even  _ doing  _ here? 

But then Louis clears his throat, and says in a clear whisper, “Harry. Are you here?” It confuses Harry for a second. Did Louis see him? Did Louis hear him? He pulls even further back, trying to figure out what kind of lie he might use to somehow protect himself when Louis goes on. “Did you get my letter?” 

Harry’s heart sinks like a stone. 

_ His  _ letter. Louis’ letter. 

For Christ’s sake, not again. 

He moves his bag from his shoulder as quietly as possible. If Louis has lured him out here for some reason, he might as well find out what it is. It can’t be an assassination attempt, after all. He’s too valuable to them in good health, Johannah had said. What has he got to lose by making his presence known? 

He sets the bag down and kicks it softly with his foot, pushing it underneath the bush behind him. Then he steps out and into the light. 

“What do you want?” 

He has to make it seem like he planned to meet Louis down here. He can’t let Louis know that he was expecting anyone else. And he certainly has no interest in letting Louis know that he’s mistaken another of Louis’ letters for the penmanship of someone else. 

Louis had been looking around the garden for him, and half facing the other direction when Harry stepped out. He spins around now, hearing Harry approach. He looks surprised to even see Harry here. 

“You came,” he says. 

Harry folds his arms across his chest. “Louis. I’m sure you know by now that I have no patience for any more of your games. Tell me what you want, or I’ll leave.” 

Louis ducks his head, like an extended, exaggerated flinch. “Right, you’re right. Sorry.” The apology throws Harry off a little, although he tries to keep the reaction off his face. He does a well enough job because Louis continues. “I don’t know if you remember when we last spoke? Spoke properly, that is, about the —” 

The last time he and Louis had shared any more than two words was when Louis had told him about King Edoard’s plan. It’s not a moment that Harry’s likely to forget any time soon. 

He points this out dryly. “You mean when you told me about the war that’s been declared on my country? Yes, I remember that quite well.” 

He can’t see it in the dim moonlight, but he thinks he sees Louis’ cheeks go red. “Of course you do, sorry, it was a foolish question.” And there’s another apology. What is going on? “We haven’t had a chance to speak in a while, but I don’t want you to think that my absence has been for —”

Harry cuts him off. “I don’t think of your absence, Louis. I don’t even notice it.” 

It feels good to lash out, especially now that Harry feels like he’s finally regained some of his power. This may be the last time he ever sees Louis if all goes well with Niall. He may as well speak his mind now, if it’s the last chance he’ll get. 

He doesn’t expect the pause that Louis leaves, though. Silence falls between them, a long moment, one that almost throws Harry off. 

Louis clears his throat right as awkwardness settles in. “Right,” he says. Something about the way he says it makes Harry feel cruel, and he’s surprised by the weight of the guilt that lands in him. “That’s fine. But I need you to know where I’ve been.” 

This is pointless. Harry should be back in his rooms, waiting for Niall’s return. This is just wasting his valuable time. “For what possible reason would I care, Louis?” 

“I’ve been working with one of my mother’s advisors,” Louis says, ignoring the slight and ploughing on around it. “We’ve been trying to figure out what Ryde can do to help your country through this mess.” 

Irritation plucks at Harry. It’s remarkably similar to what Louis’ mother had said earlier in the day when she’d revealed the truth of their plans. “I thought you already knew what Ryde could do.” 

The white light from the moon dances on Louis’ brow bone, and the curves of his cheeks. He’s remarkably expressive, illuminated like this. It makes it easier for Harry to see him frown. “I do?” 

Harry shrugs. “ Your mother’s already decided. I’m to be traded to the highest bidder when the war is won. Anything to protect Ryde.” 

He watches Louis’ shoulders fall. “She told you.” 

Harry clenches his fists. “She did. She said you were supposed to tell me, actually, but that you didn’t.”

Louis looks away from him, glancing into the shadowy trees that surround them. “I was, uh. I was trying to find another way.” 

Harry is fed up with these games. “Another way that I could be of value to you?” 

“No.” 

“A way that you might be rid of me sooner, then?” Harry keeps pushing. “Do you want to go to negotiations with Edoard and my mother early, just to see who’ll pay the higher price?” 

Louis shifts his weight from each foot, rocking with the motion. He looks back at Harry now to scowl. “Harry, stop it.” 

Harry still doesn’t like it when Louis calls him by his first name, but he can’t complain this time. He’s already forgotten to use Louis’ title. 

“Why should I?” he asks instead. “I’m only going by everything I’ve learned from you so far. Your mother made it clear enough that my safety falls far below the success of your country. Why not make a pretty penny from the whole thing as well?”

Long before Harry has finished speaking, Louis is shaking his head. “We’re not selling you. We’re  — we’re protecting you.” 

Harry scoffs. “Don’t lie to me. Your mother’s already told me the truth. You want me healthy and here, to trade for your country’s well being.” 

“That’s not what we want,” Louis says. He steps forward, still a distance away from Harry, but enough that the light on his face changes again. Harry fights not to be distracted by it. “It’s just something that we  — we can’t ignore what King Edoard might do if he wins against Andras. We have to account for every possibility.” 

Harry smiles grimly. “I suppose you find it easy to factor betraying your allies into those considerations.” 

Louis gives a little shake of his head. It’s a tiny moment, not like he’s trying to convince Harry that he’s wrong, but like he can’t even comprehend Harry’s reasoning. “It’s not easy. And I’m trying to make sure that it doesn’t happen.  That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because I don’t want it to come to that.”

“Your mother expects it to.” Harry knows that much from their conversation. She wants to make plans with him on how to approach it. She wants to keep Harry in good health. 

“My mother thinks she has heard all the options. I’m trying to ensure she has at least one more.” 

It’s too easy, Harry thinks. Whatever Louis is plotting, he’s being too obvious now. He can’t end a war by taking a month away to think. Whatever he’s doing, there must be another motive at play. 

He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that one more option will save my country, is that right?” 

“I told you I’d fix this, and I’m trying.” 

Harry doesn’t trust that at all, but he can’t deny that his curiosity is piqued. It’s too late now anyway. He and Niall are gone as soon as they can find the right path. “Tell me then. I can’t wait to hear it.” 

Louis takes a deep breath. Harry watches his chest and shoulders rise and fall with it. “I’ve been speaking with our western neighbours. They’ve agreed to fight against Edoard if Ryde and Andras unite against him.”

It’s the last thing that Harry was expecting. He’s so surprised that he needs a moment to truly register what Louis has said. Once he does, he forces himself to consider it properly. To think like a leader, as Charlotte had told him. 

“Who?” It’s the first obvious question. 

“Redrun and Erinea,” Louis says. “Redrun has a naval force far bigger than ours, and Erinea can provide us with food and resources. With them behind us, we should pose a big enough threat to King Edoard that he may call off the attack.” 

Harry takes a long, tight breath. This can’t  —  there must be a catch to this. It can’t be over that easily. “When will we hear if he has?” 

Louis pauses for a moment. Then he frowns. “We haven’t  — nothing has happened yet. They aren’t behind us yet.” 

“But you just said —” 

“—I said,  if Ryde and Andras unite then they’ll fight with us both. But they want a formal alliance again.” 

The idea of aligning himself with Ryde against feels wrong, in so many ways. They’ve proven themselves to be miserable allies, cowardly in some way, manipulative in others. But then  — it was all to protect their people, and there’s value in that kind of protective drive. Especially if they were formally bound. 

“A wedding,” Harry concludes. 

Louis nods. “Yes.” 

As annoyed and as frustrated as he’s been, the answer is easy. If Harry can change the tide of the war with this action, then there’s not any question, even if Niall returns with their spy. “Fine,” he says. “So Charlotte and I will marry  — we’ll do it tonight, make sure Redrun and Erinea know as soon as possible that it’s finalised.” 

Louis shakes his head. “Harry. Charlotte cannot marry you.” 

What is it about this family, Harry thinks, that means he’s always missing something? 

“Why not?” he demands at once, “Has she objected?” 

He thinks about their conversation from days before. He’d been short with her, rude, but she hadn’t been afraid to tell him what she thought of that. And even though he’d attacked her for the wedding being called off, she’d given no indication that she was pleased. She’d say yes if Harry asked her to do this. 

He realises as Louis begins to speak, what the problem is. 

“You know she isn’t allowed to choose her husband.” 

Harry watches him carefully. “Your mother has to make the decision.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well?” Harry asks. “What did she say?” 

Louis had been confident until this point. Aside from his odd little apologies, he’d presented this plan as a solid one. Now, he begins to crumble at the edges. 

“She,” he begins, then hesitates. “She’s said that it won’t work. She thinks that Kind Edoard will still sail on Andras, then turn around and take us all on. She says he’s too proud to call it off now.” 

So this hope isn’t a hope at all, then. 

“The wedding is still off,” Harry says just so that Louis doesn’t waste any more time trying to put off saying it himself. 

He flinches when he hears it, just a small thing, but noticeable. “Yes.” 

Harry has to turn and take a few steps. He puts distance between them, the only thing at this point that will stop him taking hold of the man and shaking him. “I don’t understand a thing about you, Louis,” he says, trying to keep his voice as level as possible. “Why the hell would you come here and tell me of this plan if you’ve already confirmed it won’t happen? Was it to just dangle hope in front of me and watch as you snatch it away?” 

Louis stumbles over his words again. “I wasn’t —”

“Do you find joy in it?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Then what is it?” Harry demands. “What is it about mocking me that you find so —?” 

“I thought you could marry me.” 

Everything thunders to a halt. The courtyard feels silent around them, even though moments ago there had been crickets singing in the underbrush, some nocturnal birds making noises in the trees. 

Even Harry’s thoughts seem to freeze.

“What?” 

Louis lifts a hand and wraps it around the back of his neck. He looks awkward, not meeting Harry’s eye even in the dark. “I’m the crown prince.  My mother doesn’t get to choose who I marry, I do. And I thought, if you were amenable, I could marry you. Then we’d have Erinea and Redrun at our side.” 

It’s so absurd, Harry needs to check again. Even though Louis’ already said it, in the clearest terms possible. 

“You want to marry me?” 

“If I must, yes. It will save Andras.” 

Dazed, Harry shakes his head. “It  _ might _ save Andras,” he corrects Louis slowly. “Your mother thinks Sicea will attack us all regardless.” 

“Yes, well.” With his arm up like it is, there’s an odd stretch to Louis’ body. Harry catches himself looking and shakes himself internally.  _ What is he doing? _ “It seems worth a try to me.” 

Harry can only stare at him. Louis drops the hand, squaring his shoulders so that he’s facing Harry front on. Harry watches as he steels himself. 

“Will you marry me, Harry? For that chance?” 

It hangs in the air between them. Then, 

“No!” 

It bursts from Harry like a shout, a desperate thing. Suddenly his thoughts return, spinning through his head at triple their normal speed. He can’t  — he can’t even comprehend that Louis has asked, let alone that he might mean it. Did he think that Harry would say  _ yes? _ After everything that he’s done? 

And all for the measly hope that King Edoard might back down? An idea that his own mother has already dismissed? 

“No, I will not.” 

Louis doesn’t move. “You won’t.” It’s not a question. Harry doesn’t know what it is. 

“Of course not!” he says. “ The entire time that I’ve been in this country, you have sought to trick me and mock me for my trust in you.” Thinking about their exchange at the banquet heats Harry’s cheeks even now, all these months later. It’s enough to spur him on, to make him brave enough to mention the subject he’s held taboo since that night. “You let me write to you for years, share my soul with you, all to gather scant information on me. I used to find such solace in those writings.”

He still can’t comprehend it.  _ Marry Louis. _

It’s ludicrous. It’s completely, utterly laughable. 

Even if it were his only option, Harry would still hesitate, but it’s not. Niall is out there, either with this Zayn person or still finding him. They have their own plan, a way out of this city that doesn’t require binding himself to this truly detestable man. 

He can’t stop himself from speaking. “Now, all I can feel when I think of those years is embarrassment. And shame. You did that to me.” 

Louis is impossibly still. He hasn’t reacted, aside from the few things that he’s said. He’s just watching. “I know,” he says. 

“Of course you know!” Harry says. He’s not talking quietly anymore, doesn’t even think to stop himself. “ You were there as much as I was. Only you were laughing on the other end. What kind of a man does that make you? Certainly not one that I have any interest in binding myself to, especially when there is no guarantee it would make the slightest difference to my country’s fate.”

Louis’ head ducks forward, his face suddenly hidden in the shadows. “I understand.”

Finally, Harry lets himself go quiet too. He realises belatedly that he’s panting from the effort of his speech, and his breath is loud in the courtyard between them. His heart is thundering like he’s just run a sprint. 

He needs to leave. Niall could have returned by now, or sent word to Harry’s room. Harry can’t afford to miss him. 

He swallows and keeps his voice quiet. “Do you have anything else you need to tell me?”

Louis looks back up. When the light spills back over his face, Harry sees him wet dry lips. He blinks a few times, the shadow of his lashes stretching long over his cheeks. “What?” 

“Have you come up with anything else, aside from this laughable idea?” 

A muscle in Louis’ jaw clenches. “No.” 

Harry nods. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight, Louis.” He doesn’t make any promises to see the man again. He hopes not to. 

His back is turned and he is a few steps away when he hears Louis’ reply. “Goodnight, Harry.” 

Harry walks a little faster. He’ll fetch his things later. He needs to get away from this place. 

♚

Harry stays awake into the early hours of the morning. He couldn’t sleep now if he wanted to — too caught up with where Niall might be, still trying to comprehend his conversation with Louis. He’d asked Harry to marry him. It feels like a dream in a way, an awful, awful dream. It’s the last in a series of completely incomprehensible moves. Again, Louis has cleared the floor between them, wiping away all of Harry’s expectations. He’s flipped the board. 

But why? For weeks now, Harry has pondered at what it is that motivates Louis. There is a desire for knowledge in him, that Harry can see as plain as day. With his friends, Louis has been easygoing and relaxed. With his sisters, Harry has seen him be soft. What else there is to him remains a mystery. 

Why would Louis send him letters for so long, and pretend so passionately to be a person that Harry loved? And why,  _ why _ would Louis go against his mother’s wishes to pursue a plan that wasn’t even guaranteed in the first place? Why would Louis even consider marrying Harry in the first place? 

Harry’s saved from trying to analyse it further when another knock comes at the door. This one is cursory, and the person behind it doesn’t wait for Harry to respond before opening the door. He knows that Harry will still be awake.

Harry straightens, alert despite his tiredness. Niall is alone, out of breath, but nothing on his face betrays what might have happened. 

“Well?” Harry asks. “Did you find him?” 

Niall looks at him so sadly that he doesn’t need to say it. Harry’s heart sinks when he sees it when he sees Niall slowly start shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” he says. “He wasn’t there. His neighbours told me he hasn’t been home in weeks. None of them have heard from him. I asked everyone I could. I — I don’t know where else to look.” 

The little flame that’s been alight in Harry dies. It snuffs out, leaving only a wisp of regret in its place. 

Niall sees it in him. “I’ll keep trying Harry,” he says. “I’ll go again tomorrow. As many days as it takes.” 

Harry nods and does his best to smile at Niall. Despite everything, Niall has done his best. Harry can’t ignore that. He doesn’t make it all the way to genuine. He can tell from the way that Niall’s face falls. 

Harry clears his throat. “We’ll try again.” 

Even he’s not convinced. They have no way of knowing if this Zayn person is gone for good, or if he’ll be back one day. Niall can check every day, and they’ll never be closer to a real plan. And while there’s still a chance they may find him, it’s tenuous at best. It’s no stronger than Louis’ plan had been, and Harry had laughed in the face of that. 

All the confusion that’s filled himself since his trip to the courtyard shifts a little now, making room for something else. Guilt takes a heavy hold of him. 

He’d had the chance tonight to risk something, to make a personal sacrifice for the good of his country. It’s the same thing that Louis and Charlotte and Queen Johannah have lectured him about, their responsibility as rulers to make difficult decisions. He’d been given the choice to do the same and he’d shot it down. He hadn’t even hesitated, high on his own grand plans, confident in his surety that he was right. 

They were right then. 

Harry doesn’t know how to be a ruler at all. 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	6. Chapter 6

♚

Cold sea air whips at Louis’ cheeks. 

He can hear the waves as they crash on the bow of their ship, but it doesn’t feel nearly as violent as it sounds. The floor is steady underneath his feet, rising up and down with the water, but not so much to throw him off-balance. He holds onto the side of the ship regardless, bracing himself in one way, grounding himself in another. 

It’s noisy, with the waves and the wind singing past him. Even though it’s freezing — a biting cold that nips at his ears and the tip of his nose — the air still somehow manages to refresh him. It’s brisk, but it wakes him up, keeps him alert. 

Distracts him, even. 

He’s been searching for distraction a lot lately, quite unsuccessfully. As much as he’d like to banish it from his thoughts, the only thing he can think about is his meeting with Harry in the courtyard. Harry’s words echo in Louis’ head, rattling around there as if they’ve made that spot their permanent home. 

The no had spilled so quickly from Harry’s lips. Louis can’t stop replaying the moment in his mind. Harry hadn’t even paused to think about it. There was no question to him, that he would ever consider Louis as a husband. It was unthinkable. 

Louis had expected it. 

That’s what has him so shaken. He’d known that Harry wouldn’t like the idea, and why should he? Taking the way that Louis has treated him into account, he ought to have reacted even more harshly. His no was almost polite, all things considered. 

So no, Louis hadn’t been waiting for an enthusiastic yes and embrace. But he’d thought. 

He’d thought it was a chance, at least. 

Negotiating with Erinea and Redrun had taken time, and during all their conversations Louis had been conscious of their time running out. Their meetings took place in secret, Louis sitting down with their ambassadors in the dead of night, in small hidden rooms in the lower town. He’d called Ruben in to assist him, and though she hadn’t approved of him acting behind his mother’s back, she’d ultimately agreed. 

‘ _You’re my Prince,”_ she’d told him. ‘ _If you’re going to be rash, then I will be there at your side the same as I would be in any other situation. Especially knowing that you’ll go ahead without me if I don’t.’_

They’d spent a lot of time convincing them that united, they would be a match for King Edoard. They’d been hesitant and extremely sceptical. It was probably indicative of the weakness of their plan. And he couldn’t even convince his own mother. 

It was still something. A plan, when their only other option seems to be sitting out to see where the cards fall. 

Despite everything between him and Harry personally, he’d hoped that Harry might see that. And then, selfishly, Louis might have had the chance to try again with Harry. To make a better start than the one they’ve had already.

Harry was right to laugh it down. It was a foolish idea. 

Every time Louis tries to force the memory from his head, it seems to take an even stronger hold there. So he stands here, lets the wind lash at him, and thinks about that instead. 

“I’m beginning to think that this is your favourite place in the world.” Louis startles at the voice, but quickly relaxes when he turns to see Zayn at his side. He takes a similar stance to Louis, leaning forward and bracing his arms on the side of the ship. “I find you here so often.” 

He’d been essential to Louis’ negotiations with Redrun and Erinea. He’d been the necessary Andran presence, not able to make promises for his country, but able at least to speak to their interests. He knew Princess Gemma and Queen Anne, and he swore he could fairly reliably predict their behaviour. Of course, it was Harry that they needed to better understand in the end. Unfortunately, he was the only member of the Styles family with whom Zayn wasn’t acquainted. 

Louis turns back to look at the water. “There’s a certain kind of peace to be found here.” 

Zayn snorts. “A certain kind of windburn, you mean. Your nose has gone all red. And your hair’s a mess.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. They’ve been at sea for weeks now. The closest thing Louis’ had to a wash is a damp cloth that he’s used to wipe away sweat as best he can. “I hardly think it matters what my hair looks like.” 

“Yeah, well,” Zayn smirks. “You don’t have to look at it, do you?” 

He reaches up and ruffles Louis’ hair before Louis can dodge out of his reach. Louis cackles, his sour mood immediately broken as he shoves Zayn away. 

They met first so that Zayn could convey a message from Princess Gemma, something tactical, a political issue that’s long since been resolved. They don’t see each other very often these days — Zayn is always working, and Louis is always preoccupied with matters of state — but when they do need to speak, always in an emergency like this one, it is easy between them. Louis can comfortably call Zayn his friend. One of his best. 

“Oh, shut up,” Louis tells him, still laughing. He straightens his shirt a little, then warily moves back to where he’d stood. 

He keeps a careful eye on Zayn, but his friend sobers as well. After a moment, he asks a careful question. “You are going to tell us about it at some point, aren’t you?” 

Louis swallows around something thick in his throat. “Tell you about what?” 

Zayn shoots him a very tired look. “Don’t play dumb with me,” he says. “I know you better than that. What happened with Prince Harry?” 

Zayn is one of three people in the world that Louis had told about his intention to ask Harry to marry him. Ruben and Liam were the others, them and Zayn the only three people Louis would ever trust with something so delicate. Despite that, Louis hasn’t been able to tell them about his conversation in the courtyard garden. Or, at least, not the finer details. 

“I told you,” Louis says, keeping his focus on the horizon. “He said no.” 

_Of course not!_ Is what Harry said. _A laughable idea._

Zayn and Liam don’t need to know about that. 

“Yes, I heard that much,” Zayn says. “But why? I thought he’d think it was a good plan.” 

It had struck Louis as odd when he’d learned that Harry had no idea of Zayn’s presence in Ryde. Zayn had tried to explain; Gemma had always tried to keep their work hidden from her brother, perhaps a little ashamed of her more underhanded tactics. It seemed an odd choice to leave Harry out of that completely, though. He had to know the kind of choices that were required of people of their station. They weren’t always pleasant, and they certainly weren’t always honourable. 

Then he thinks of Lottie, and he understands. He has an innate desire to protect her from that part of his life. Princess Gemma clearly felt the same about Harry. 

Louis lifts his shoulders, shrugging. “It didn’t guarantee him anything.” That, at the very least, Louis could understand. They had an advantage with Erinea and Redrun behind them, but it didn’t promise them anything. And Johannah was right; Edoard was a proud man, and not likely to simply retreat in the face of a fight. Even if it was one he was less likely to win. “It was just — it was a hope.” 

That makes Zayn frown. “You’d think that he would take any hope he could get, at this point.” 

Zayn is about as pleased by Johannah’s decision to hold onto Harry as Harry himself is. It doesn’t escape Louis’ grasp that Zayn is an Andran first and a friend second. If he decided, he could have chosen to whisk Harry away himself, and take him back to what little safety Andras could offer him. 

He hadn’t done that though. He’d placed his trust in Louis, instead. 

Louis has rewarded that trust by alienating Harry so thoroughly that he wouldn’t even consider a marriage that might give his country a little more power in this war. He can’t admit that to Zayn just yet. One day, he’ll be bold and tell the truth, but not today. Not yet. 

“Well, he didn’t.” 

Zayn is far too clever to leave it there. “I know that there’s more to it than that, Louis. There’s something you’re not telling us.” 

Louis looks down at the railing of the ship. It’s been smoothed down, but small areas of damage remain, showing the age of the ship they’re onboard. A hint of the fights that it’s already seen. He scratches his index nail across a small divot, one that looks suspiciously similar to the mark from an iron arrowhead. 

“It’s not important.”

“You _think_ it’s not important.”

Louis shakes his head. “I know. Believe me, I know.” 

He doesn’t need to look at Zayn to know that he’s not going to drop this. Zayn’s always been like this. He always knows exactly where to look for the important things, can tell if something is missing from a story that he thinks will matter later. He’s probably right, too. It’s not like Harry is beholden to keep the entire experience a secret. Perhaps it will be all around Ryde when they return, and Louis won’t have to tell Zayn anything. Although, that seems like the worst of Louis’ options. 

That’s a problem for their return. Louis has months to decide. “It doesn’t matter, either way. It wasn’t as though marrying him was our only option. It was just the simplest. This is going to work.” 

Zayn makes a non-committal noise. “It might work,” he says. “Or, Gemma might find out that you’ve somehow offended her little brother and refuse to see you at all.” 

There is a chance of that. It’s the first time that Louis has felt glad of the policy his mother has made, forbidding further riders from being sent to Andras. It alleviates the risks. Gemma will likely learn everything one day, but it won’t be soon. 

It’s only a small reprieve, but that’s all they need. 

Louis shoots Zayn a tight smile. “We’ll just have to hope that doesn’t happen. Even if Harry does send a letter, there’s no way that it could reach her before we do.” 

Unless Harry sent a letter on the same day that they left, Louis thinks, but Louis’ fairly sure that didn’t happen. 

“So you did offend him, then?” 

Okay, so Louis did step fairly neatly into that one. He bristles. “Stop using your spy tricks on me.” 

Zayn turns to face him front on. He pushes an arm in front of Louis, forcing Louis to turn as well. His eyes are dark, incredibly serious. “What did you do?” 

But Louis already knows all of Zayn’s tricks. He’s not intimidated by that stare. “Have we not already established that it’s not important?” 

“You’ve said it enough times,” Zayn says. “I just don’t believe you.” 

Louis flashes him a cheeky grin. “Lucky for me, you don’t have to.” 

There are still sometimes that Louis gets to remind him that he’s a prince, and therefore doesn’t answer to anyone but his mother. Zayn has an uncanny talent for making Louis forget that. 

He tries it now, scolding him. “Louis.” 

Louis can only shoot Zayn and exaggerated glare of his own. “Zayn,” he parrots back. 

Zayn huffs and pushes himself out of Louis’ space again. He’s just on the edge of being too angry, and Louis feels a little guilt nudge at him. But he can’t tell Zayn yet. Or Liam. It’s just — it’s too humiliating. 

The only thing he can do is try and push past this. He taps Zayn’s ankle with the tip of his foot. “Is Liam awake yet?” 

Zayn recognises it for the olive branch that it is. He sighs, but relents, moving slowly back to Louis’ side. “Don’t think he ever got to sleep, to be honest.” 

Louis winces. “Still sick?” 

“What do you think?” 

Liam’s been emptying his stomach over the side of the ship almost as long as they’ve been on the damn thing. He’s never faired well at sea, for some reason that Louis’ doctors can’t determine. ‘ _It’s simple seasickness, Your Highness,’_ they’d told him. ‘ _Unfortunately, there’s no cure for that._ ’ Hearing their news, Liam had turned greener. Then he’d had to vomit it again. 

“We need to get him on the water more often,” Louis says. The only way he can think of fixing the problem is to get Liam used to it. 

A smile cracks Zayn’s stony facade. “Don’t tell him that. He might cry on you.” 

He probably would. Louis shakes his head a little at the thought. “We’ll be back on land soon.” 

Zayn glances behind them, at the ship that’s been their home for the past few weeks. It’s not the grandest of vessels — Louis couldn’t risk taking one of his mother’s best ships, in case things turned sour with King Edoard — but it certainly isn’t the worst. Still, seeing the same thing every day has grown tiresome, and even Louis feels a little sick from the endless rocking motion of the water. 

Zayn feels the same. “Can’t come soon enough.” 

Louis hums. They stand quietly for a while. 

“We’re still all clear to the west?” Louis has asked Zayn this almost every morning, and most afternoons too. With only each other for company, it feels as if they’ve already discussed everything that they need to. It’s starting to get incredibly repetitive. 

Still, it needs to be asked. 

“Barrelman hasn’t seen anything overnight.” He nods his head up to the Crow's nest, where Louis can see a pair of black boots propped up and over the railing. Louis could never do it — he’s not very good with heights — but he thinks the men always look so relaxed when he sees them up there. “And the horizon is clear this morning.” 

It should be reassuring. It is, in some ways. Their ship isn’t at risk of an attack, at the very least. But King Edoard’s absence from their journey means one thing: 

“He’s not at sea anymore then,” Louis says. “We would have seen him.” 

Zayn nods. “I think he’ll have landed south. If he’s clever, he’ll try and take Damenz as fast as he can. He knows it’s our best trade port. Cutting us off there is the smartest move.” 

Zayn talks about it with such calmness. If it were Ryde under attack, Louis’ cities under threat, he doesn’t think he’d be able to think clearly, let alone discuss it with such clarity. Others might think it’s indifference that colours Zayn’s tone, but Louis knows better. He’s one of the proudest Andrans that Louis has ever met. He’s just also impossibly sensible, good with tactics, and able to understand their enemies moves before they’ve even made them. 

Damenz is the second-largest city in Andras. It sits at the southern point of the country, two day’s ride on horseback from Vierres. If King Edoard were to sail straight past them, to Vierres first, then he risked an attack from both sides. Every piece of intelligence they’d received indicated that Edoard hoped to put an end to that risk by attacking Damenz first. 

There are hundreds of thousands of people there, Louis thinks. His chest aches for them. “Let’s hope they put up a fight.” 

“I do not doubt that they will,” Zayn says. “It gives us time, at least.” 

They have no idea of knowing how long King Edoard will be held up at the southern port. They can’t rely on this as some great advantage. King Edoard might have conquered the city already. “Not much of it,” Louis says. “We need to be fast.” 

“We will be.” Again, Zayn says it with such certainty that it’s impossible not to trust him. “But we can’t be hasty. If we stumble and get caught, we’d only be making everything more difficult.” 

Louis doesn’t want to think about what would happen if King Edoard captured them in Andras. It would jeopardise the safety of all of Ryde if he suspected Louis of plotting with Andras. That’s nothing to say of what his mother would do when she learnt he’d been taken. 

She doesn’t even know that he’s here. Ruben had organised the ship for them, again in the dead of night. She’d seen Louis to it safely, filled the ship with men she trusted and ordered them to break the sailing ban. 

Before they’d set off, she’d squeezed Louis’ hand tightly. ‘ _Don’t make me regret this,’_ she’d made him promise. 

Louis had no intention of letting her or his mother down. 

“So we don’t get caught,” Louis says, swallowing down a swell of nervousness. “You know the way. We’ll be in and out, quick as we can.” 

“Yes, but if we’re successful and Liam is not, then it will have all been for nothing.” 

Zayn is always a little more worried about their missions when they split up. When they have worked together they’ve always done so as a team. Sending Liam away, on his own, has them both feeling a little worried. 

“He’ll be on horseback,” Louis says. “That gives him an edge. He’ll have more time than us to make his case.” 

Zayn nods. “Let’s just hope it’s enough time.” 

“It will be,” Louis says. It has to be. 

“I just want to get there,” Zayn says. He’s as still as ever, but Louis can interpret the frustration in his voice. It’s the same feeling that’s plagued Louis since they set off. “I’m sick of being on this ship, planning. I want to get started.” 

It’s almost poetic, that Andras chooses that moment to appear on the skyline. One moment they are staring out at the fog and the next a large black shape pushes through the mist. It’s so far away that Louis can only just make it out, but as he does he sees that it stretches the entire horizon. As far as his eye can see. 

The size of it winds him, a little. He’s never been to Andras before. It’s _huge._

“You’re in luck,” Louis says, staring at it. 

And as he’s caught up in the sheer scale of the country they’re approaching, tense with the sudden realness of their plan, Zayn relaxes. Softness pushes at him, his shoulders dropping just a little and a whoosh of air escaping him. 

He smiles, such a smile. “Ah,” he says. “ _Home._ ” 

That makes Louis’ blood rush. _Home._ It doesn’t feel that way for him. This feels as far from home as ever. There’s no denying the softening of Zayn’s body, as though like he’s been holding his breath just waiting for this moment, and was finally free to let it out. 

Would Harry do the same if he were here? 

He needs to stop thinking about Harry. Christ. 

He shakes himself a little. “Get someone to wake Liam, will you? He needs to get ready.” 

“I’ll note that you’re not doing anything,” Zayn says pointedly. “Why don’t you find him?” 

Louis readjusts his grip on the side of the ship. “I want to stay here a while longer.” He’s not ready to let go of the wind just yet. He needs it to think. To keep his mind clear. 

Zayn sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I won’t stop pushing, you know.” 

And they’re back again. It’s relentless, Zayn’s pursuit to understand what happened between Louis and Harry. Honestly, Louis’ not surprised. He wouldn’t expect anything else.

“Push as much as you like,” Louis says. “You won’t get anything from me.” 

Zayn looks at him shrewdly. “I think I will.” 

He’s probably right, but it won’t be now. 

Louis will keep his secrets a little while longer. 

♚

It’s foolish, but Louis’ initial thought had been that he and Zayn would sneak into the palace itself. Vierres is a sprawling city, four lower rings that surround a glittering palace at its centre. Haverhill is more contained, just the upper and lower city, and much more easy to navigate. Louis is sure that despite its complexity, they should be able to find a path through the Vierres streets that will lead them into a servants entrance or something. 

When he says as much to Zayn, he gets an incredulous look in return. “You think the palace is so poorly guarded?”

Louis had spluttered. “No, I just.” 

“They’d catch us in an instant,” Zayn had said. “No. I’ll send word to Gemma and ask her to come to us.” 

There’s a lot riding on this. Enough that Louis’ doesn’t feel entirely comfortable hinging it all on a simple request. But he’s all too aware that he’s out of his depth here. Zayn is the expert, and Louis will just have to trust him. 

Zayn leads him through the winding streets of the outermost ring. The houses are the least impressive here, pushed together and poorly built. It doesn’t seem like the right place for a meeting like this — although, Louis expects that’s exactly why Zayn chose it. 

Once Andras had appeared on the horizon, it had taken another few hours for them to land. They landed south of Vierres, just by a short distance. There they said goodbye to Liam. He’d been in soaring moods, ecstatic to finally have his feet back on dry land, and had smiled confidently at them before he’d climbed onto his horse. 

“Seven days,” Louis had reminded him, doing a final check on the bridle of Liam’s horse, just to be safe. 

Liam had nodded. “Yes. I’ll see you then.” 

Then he was gone. 

He undoubtedly has the harder task. Zayn and Louis at least have the remnants of an allegiance to work with. Liam has to start from scratch. 

The thought of that sets Louis’ nerves alight. Liam is as good as any of them at diplomacy — probably better. Zayn is the best at seeing the full picture, actions and their consequences, and Louis is a mediator at his core. Liam has always been the best spoken of them, the most at ease with their formal court life. It’s why they chose him to ride south. 

Still, it’s impossible not to worry a little. Worst-case scenarios play at his mind as he and Zayn duck and weave through the streets. He imagines Liam being hauled from his horse, or identified as an enemy in the dark and shot by an arrow. 

It’s a relief when they finally arrive because it gives Louis something else to think about. Their destination is a narrow apartment, two-stories tall and with shared walls on both sides. Louis hadn’t thought about that possibility. It will make it more difficult to keep this entire thing a secret if they have to worry about neighbours overhearing them through the walls. 

Zayn reads Louis face before Louis has to say anything. “I own the apartments on either side,” he mutters to Louis lowly. “I keep them empty. It gives us a cushion.” 

Louis should have known better than to question him. 

Zayn pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. There are probably ten or fifteen keys accompanying this one. Louis wonders just how many safehouses Zayn has, and in how many countries. 

“This way.” 

Zayn shuts the door quietly behind them and motions for Louis to head straight for the stairs. Louis does as he’s told and quietly climbs them, wary of the creaking wood underneath him. Everything is dark at the top of the stairs, but Zayn quickly fixes that by brushing past Louis and lighting a candle. It flickers to life and illuminates a small room, with a fireplace, a table and several rickety wooden chairs. There’s a window facing the west, but it’s small and high on the wall, far too high for anyone to see in from the street or the nearby houses. 

It’s perfect. 

Louis sits at the table as Zayn vanishes back down the stairs. They’re not going any further than this, but they still need to get word to Princess Gemma to meet with them. Zayn has a man standing by, ready to deliver the message. 

He’s by himself for about ten minutes. It leaves him with his thoughts again, and he finds very quickly he can’t just sit still. He taps his hands on the tabletop to start but ends up by the fire. Figuring out how to light it is the best way to keep him entertained. There’s some dry wood already there, but Zayn doesn’t seem to keep a starter near the fireplace. Louis goes hunting for it, finding some chests in the far corner. He’s digging through them when Zayn returns. 

“I keep them downstairs,” he says, throwing a small bag to Louis. It’s filled with dry leaves and twigs, perfect for catching a flame. Louis uses the flame from the candle to light it, then tosses it into the fireplace. 

“I didn’t know Andras got cold,” he says. 

Zayn rolls his eyes. In the shadows, his face is made entirely of sharp lines. It makes him look more serious than normal. “Did you imagine we only have one season here?” 

Louis rubs at his arms. They were both wearing cloaks on their walk, but that hadn’t really done much to keep out the chill. It’s a different kind of cold than Louis is used to. It’s as if the temperature is carried just on the wind alone, the streets themselves bone dry. “You said it didn’t snow here.” 

“It doesn’t have to be snowing for it to be cold, Louis.” 

Louis huffs. “I know _that_.” 

Zayn just flashes him a smirk. “Sounds like you didn’t.” 

Glaring, Louis says, “Whatever, just leave it.” 

Zayn doesn’t leave it. He makes jokes for the next half hour, pointed little comments about how the weather works and how ‘ _the earth moves away from the sun and that makes it colder at times in the year._ ’ Louis puts up with it, grumpy but distracted at the very least. It’s annoying that the first thing to settle Louis’ nerves is Zayn making fun of him, but he’ll take what he can get.

Especially when they rocket straight back at the sound of a knock on the door. Zayn stiffens too, listening clearly for a pattern that carries a message. 

Then he looks at Louis. “She’s here.” 

Zayn goes down the stairs to let her in, so Louis has a few moments to decide where he should stand. He opts for further in from the top of the stairs, leaving her and Zayn the chairs closer to them. He stands behind his chair and holds his hands behind his back. 

Down the stairs, he hears a woman’s voice. 

“Zayn.” It’s warm, soft, and oddly familiar. She has the same accent as her brother. “You look good.” 

Louis can hear Zayn’s reply too. “So do you, considering.” 

A sigh. “Just what every girl likes to hear.” 

They’re good friends. Louis shouldn’t be surprised, he and Zayn have grown incredibly close over the years, but the idea of Zayn sharing a similar relationship with Gemma manages to throw Louis off balance. This is the heir to the throne of Andras, and she’s joking around with Zayn as if she were any old friend from his past. The two don’t match in Louis’ head somehow. 

He doesn’t have the time to reconcile that thought before footsteps fall on the stairs. In barely two seconds, she reaches the top, and then Louis is as much on display as she is.

It’s uncanny to look at Gemma and see Harry’s lips, Harry’s brows. The bridge of their nose is the same, too. Maybe this is what people think when they see Louis and his sisters. He’s certainly heard as much from strangers, but he’d never understood. He sees it now. She’s wearing dark clothes, probably leather although the soft light from the fire makes it difficult to tell. Her hair is tied back, tucked away under a large hood that drapes forward. She’s probably used it to shield her face on her journey here. It does a good job. Even now it casts her face in shadows. 

She doesn’t look very much like a princess. To Louis, she seems more a warrior. 

“You must be Prince Louis.” 

Louis bows his head. “Call me Louis, please.” 

She watches him shrewdly. Louis recognises her suspicion. Titles are always a tricky game between royals. It’s no secret that the request to ignore them altogether could be as much a test as it is a respectful gesture. He watches as Gemma tries to determine which category Louis’ offer falls under. 

After a pause, she nods. “Alright then, Louis. I’m Gemma.” 

So she’s choosing to trust him. Cautiously, of course, but it’s a good start. 

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Louis says. 

Gemma shrugs a little and walks further into the room. She has a careful pace, like her every moment is thoughtfully chosen, as much a tactical move as anything she might say. “Well, it’s not every day that a foreign prince sneaks into my country,” she says. “Especially escorted by an old friend of mine.” 

When she glances at Zayn, Louis sees her face isn’t entirely free of suspicion there either. It’s another good sign — one that tells Louis she’s as good a player in this game of theirs as anyone. Their long friendship doesn’t excuse him from her wariness. And it shouldn’t. Zayn has been in Ryde long enough, has become close enough to Louis that anyone may think to question his allegiance. 

Zayn sees the same look that Louis does and doesn’t bat an eye. He understands it the same as Louis. 

“I’m very grateful to Zayn for bringing me here,” Louis says. “It would have been impossible without him.” 

Slowly, Gemma walks closer to the small table. Louis mimics her, pulling out the chair before him and sitting down when she does. “You must have something important to tell me, to have come so far.” 

“It isn’t so much a message to deliver,” Louis says. He has to speak slowly, choose his words carefully. “I have a request for you, and your mother.” 

She tilts her head, intrigued but still guarded. “I see.” 

It leaves a silence between them, interrupted only by the flickering of the fire. When it becomes clear that Gemma isn’t going to say anything more than that, Louis braces himself. There’s no point in stalling. He needs to just say it. 

“We would like—” 

“Tell me,” Gemma interrupts him. Louis realises in an instant she was simply waiting for him to speak, an old way of throwing someone off their game. “How is my brother?” 

Louis takes a moment to steel himself. He’s not a fool. He’d known as soon as he’d started planning this meeting that Gemma would enquire after Harry. He’d prepared his answers as such. “He’s well. I think he feels a little cooped up.” 

It’s a bit of an understatement, but it’s not a lie. 

Gemma raises a brow. “That’s likely to happen when you’re someone’s captive.”

Louis smiles tightly. “We’re not holding him captive.” 

“Is that right?” Gemma says. “So if I asked you to send him back to us, you’d do that?” 

She’s held Louis’ eye since the moment she stepped in, never shying away from such a direct look. Louis keeps his composure. She knows as well as he does that he can’t do that. 

They watch each other for a while. The silence is his answer. 

She waits another moment, then nods. “Sounds like he’s a captive to me.” 

“He’s a guest,” Louis says. “He’s also someone that carries a heavy political burden. I’m sure you understand how it would look to King Edoard if we sent him home to you.” 

He knows just from the last few minutes that she’s not a fool either. If their positions were reversed, if it was Charlotte held in Andras and Ryde that Sicea sailed upon, they would have been faced with the same choices. They would have drawn the same conclusions that Johannah and Louis have. 

He understands that Harry’s her brother, though. If it had been Charlotte, Louis might never have stopped to get her back.

“I’m sure you understand what it looks like to us that you refuse,” Gemma says. 

Louis does his best to look unaffected. The worst thing he can do here is look weak. “We are not sending him anywhere, for the time being. He’s safe in Ryde, we’ve made sure of it. And his staying there is the least,” he pauses, again trying to find the perfect word, “ _volatile_ of our options.” 

Gemma leans forward, bracing her elbows on the table. She keeps her posture calm, but her eyes narrow, betraying her anger. 

“Yes,” she says. “Ryde certainly has proved itself in that regard. Your choice will always be the option that doesn’t rock the boat, won’t it?” 

It’s an accusation that Louis has heard many times before, especially from Harry. He’s prepared for it, and he certainly isn’t ashamed of it. He just nods. “In a way, yes.” 

Gemma’s look shifts quickly to an accusatory glare. “Even if the boat you’re rocking is a secret armada? The tools of a King who’s launched an unprovoked attack on a neighbour. And an attack based entirely out of greed, at that? You’ll do everything you can to keep that boat on a steady path?” 

Louis has never disputed that King Edoard is the one in the wrong here. He’d argued the same thing to his mother, after all. But there’s a reason that his mother has made the decision she has. 

“We simply don’t believe it will make any difference,” Louis says. 

Gemma laughs dryly. She leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her front. “Spoken like a true middle man.” 

She means it as an insult, but it isn’t one to Louis. “Maybe.” 

His composure is irritating her, he can see it flickering in her eyes. “That doesn’t concern you?” 

Louis shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m not your enemy.” 

“You might as well be,” Gemma says. “You’ve made it more than clear that you’re happy to stand back and let Edoard do as he likes.” 

Louis sits back in his chair. It’s easier to speak to her like this, to feel rational in the face of her anger. “I don’t know where you got the impression that we are King Edoard’s keepers. What amount of control do you think we have over the man?” 

It’s something he’s wanted to ask Harry since this started. He needs to know why they seem so convinced that Ryde can simply raise their voice and end this conflict. 

“Don’t pretend you’re so powerless here,” Gemma snaps. “If you’d spoke out against this, he may not have sailed.” 

This is why Louis hadn’t asked Harry. A word from Ryde was Andras’ last hope. The answer is as simple as that. They’re desperate. 

So Louis keeps his voice low, soft. “Or he may have sailed on us. Either result was equally likely, and we do not have the strength to repel him. Our hands are tied.” 

“Why are you here then?” Gemma demands. “If you’re so committed to staying out of this fight?” 

Louis takes a deep breath. “I must keep _Ryde_ from this fight,” he says, hoping that she sees the difference. “Formally, we have done so. I have come on my own to ask that you see our impartiality as an asset to you.” 

He’s watching her so closely that he manages to catch the flash of interest that crosses her face. She masks it quickly. “How have you come to that conclusion?” 

Louis takes a deep breath. “With the wedding between your brother and my sister called off, we are no longer an ally to Andras. We have no formal ties to your country.” 

Gemma scowls. “Do not think we will not discuss your cancelling of the wedding.” 

“I would be more than happy to speak about that with you,” Louis says. He’s not lying. They have made the right decision and he’s more than happy to sit down and make sure she understands that. But now isn’t the time. “Later. For now, we have to focus on King Edoard. I want you to meet with him.” 

Gemma has been sitting still for most of their conversation, controlled in her movements. Despite this, Louis still notices as she seems to freeze. It takes a beat, and another, before she says, “I’m sorry?” 

Louis risks a glance at Zayn. He’s been impossible quiet, standing near the fireplace since Louis and Gemma had sat down and began to speak. His face betrays nothing, but something about his determined stillness reassures Louis. He feels a little bolder when he looks back to Gemma. 

“You and your mother,” he says. “I’d like you to ride out with me and meet with King Edoard, on neutral ground. Let me be the middleman, just like you said.” 

It’s the only option they have left, as far as Louis can see. Negotiation is the only thing that they haven’t tried. 

Gemma reacts the way that anyone might expect. Her voice is cold. “You want us to sit down with the man who’s already assaulted our shores?” 

“Yes.” 

Her lips twitch; a sneer. “Why would we do that?” 

“Edoard is only here for your iron,” Louis says. “You have been trading with him for years. Perhaps you could negotiate with him, find a new agreement that would finish this without bloodshed.” 

He knows that it sounds impossibly naive. He hadn’t even braved telling his mother. He can only imagine what Jakob and Ruben would have to say. There was no need to have that conversation when he could so easily anticipate the result. So he’d simply found Liam and Zayn and asked them to come with him. 

They’d agreed though. Surely that means it isn’t entirely a fool’s errand. 

“The man declared war on us without so much as a thought to our trade agreements,” Gemma says. “We didn’t even know that he was unsatisfied with it until we heard of his ships coming for us. You’re asking us to ignore all of that?”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m not asking you to ignore it. I’m just asking that you don’t let it prevent you from meeting with him.” 

It's quiet again. Louis doesn’t dare break it. Gemma needs this time to assess him, to decide exactly how serious Louis is about this. 

“He’s already agreed to this?” She asks. 

“We have a man riding to meet him as we speak,” Louis says. “We’ll have word in three days as to his answer.”

This conversation is only half of the work. The rest rides on Liam, on how successfully he can convince King Edoard to think rationally. 

“And what if Edoard says no?” 

Louis swallows. “Then there is nothing that we can do. Like I said, we do not control the man. I can only hope that he will listen to reason. There is as much risk to his men as there is to yours.” 

Gemma breathes deeply. Louis can hear it from across the table. Her eyes are stern, and again Louis fights to not just see Harry in her. 

“This is a gamble,” she says. 

Louis nods. “Of course it is. But I think it’s a gamble worth taking if the alternative is war.” 

The irony is not lost on him, that this is the second time he’s tried to convince a member of this family to take a risk on him. He can only hope this conversation goes better than his first attempt. 

“My mother won’t agree,” Gemma says. 

Louis’ heart sinks. “Do you think I could speak to her and maybe—” 

Gemma shakes her head, silencing him. “I don’t need to ask her, I already know the answer. And she’ll be right, we can’t risk her leaving the city. Even if King Edoard does agree to meet, we have no guarantee that he wouldn’t turn the entire thing into an ambush.”

Her stare dares him to tell her otherwise, but he can’t. “That is a risk.” 

“And you think the risk is worth it?” 

“Yes,” Louis says. “I think we should do everything that we can to make sure that this is solved amicably.” 

For the first time, Gemma lets her guard down a little. Her arms relax a little as she unfolds them, reaching out to rest her wrist against the table. She stares down at it as she thinks. She’s considering it. 

“You clearly have some inkling that King Edoard might agree to new terms,” she says. “Where does that come from?”

“Edoard has a good relationship with my mother.” They’re distant cousins actually. Johannah’s grandfather was Edoard’s great uncle. “With me in the room, I think he will be more compelled to be reasonable.” 

“You value yourself so highly?” 

It’s another attempt at getting a rise out of him. Louis forces himself not to react. “I know my worth.” 

“And what does Harry think of your plan?” 

That makes Louis pause. He startles before he can control it, then kicks himself internally. There’s no way that Gemma missed that. He chooses to be honest again. “I haven’t told him.” 

Distrust creeps onto her face. “Why not?” 

There are many reasons that Louis didn’t approach Harry with this plan. Selfishly, his pride is the strongest thing that had kept him quiet. Harry’s laughter, his clear shock at Louis’ marriage proposal had struck Louis like a physical blow. But that wasn’t the only thing. Maybe worse than the idea of Harry laughing at him again, was the idea of Harry believing in him, only to be let down again. 

“I didn’t want to raise his hopes,” Louis says. 

It’s not a good answer. 

“You clearly believe in this idea,” Gemma says. “Why shouldn’t Harry have the chance to believe in it too?” 

“I—” It’s the first time that Louis has stumbled so far, and it feels very telling that this would be the moment it happens. He doesn’t want to think about what Zayn might be seeing in him. “I knew that he would be worried by the idea of your mother meeting with the enemy. I didn’t want to cause him that alarm.” 

Gemma’s face is quickly shifting from simple distrust to outright dislike. “Again,” she says, steely, “that seems like a decision that Harry should be allowed to make.” 

Louis can’t dispute that. “You’re right. I should have told him.” 

“And I’m supposed to believe that the only thing that prevented you from doing so was your concern for his feelings?” Gemma watches him like a hawk. 

Louis flushes, exposed, caught out. “Why does it matter?” 

Gemma leans abruptly forward. It’s a little attack of its own, a way for her to lash out without actually doing anything. “It matters because if you’ve told me one thing and my brother another, then it seems your confidence in this plan is shakeable after all.” 

Louis had to get past this. He needs to claw some sense of certainty back into this conversation. “Our success isn’t certain, but I do think we have a chance.” 

“Why didn’t you tell Harry then?” 

Louis takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says. “To put it bluntly, your brother doesn’t like me very much.” 

That catches Gemma off guard. Not by much, but enough for her pause, considering. “He doesn’t?” 

“No,” Louis says. “The fault is mine. I made some poor choices when we met. He doesn’t trust me.” 

“You’re not instilling me with a lot of faith here,” Gemma says. 

Despite that, Louis thinks it’s the first correct step he’s made in the last few minutes. She’s still analysing his every move, but something in her seems to have settled. 

“I think I am,” Louis says. “I could have lied to you — said that Harry is all for this plan, that he and I are the best of friends — but that isn’t the truth. I’m being honest so that you know I am not a liar.”

Gemma stays silent long enough for Louis to determine that he’s right. She waits a long time to say, “My mother will not meet with King Edoard.” 

Louis leaves the same long pause. He watches her, searching her face for any hint of doubt she might be feeling. He finds none and his stomach twists. That’s it then. 

“If that’s your decision, so be it,” Louis says. 

“I will.” 

That — that doesn’t make any sense. Louis blinks. “What?” 

“If Edoard agrees, I will meet with him,” Gemma says. A muscle in her jaw clenches, visible in the firelight, and it tells Louis that she is determined. He’s seen the same thing on Harry’s face before. “I have to speak with my mother, of course, but with her permission, I will ride out with you.” 

Louis hardly dares to believe it. “That’s—” he has to stop, collect himself. “Thank you.” 

Gemma stands so quickly that Louis jumps a little. He quickly follows her lead, pushing his chair back and standing with her. She reaches up and adjusts the hood on her head, an indication that she’s ready to end this conversation. 

“If this goes as you hope, I’ll be the one thanking you.” 

Louis doesn’t know quite what to say to that, so he simply nods his head. 

Gemma does the same. “Find me when you have word from the king.” 

As she leaves, she pauses by Zayn and reaches out to squeeze his arm. Louis feels uniquely privileged to see that, that small moment of solidarity between them. Two Andrans, daring to hope. 

“I will see you soon,” Zayn promises. 

Then she is gone. 

♚

They get word from Liam right on schedule. The messenger knocks on the door and scares the life out of Louis and Zayn, both tensing and readying for a fight. It’s a relief when they recognise the pattern of the knock, the one that tells them it’s an ally at their door and not an enemy. 

Louis’ hands shake when he uncurls the note. 

_I have the package. You may expect it in three days, as agreed._

It’s a simple message, but just those few words flood Louis with adrenaline. By some miracle, Liam has been able to convince King Edoard of the worthiness of their mission. Zayn leaves as soon as he’s read the message himself, headed straight for Gemma. 

They wait until nightfall for Gemma to sneak back down to the fourth ring. She rides behind Zayn back to where they’re ship is waiting, and to where they have a third horse prepared for her. It takes another two days to ride to get to their meeting place. It is an equal distance from Damenz and Vierres, not too difficult to access but far enough away that they would have warning if a large group was headed there. It’s the only way that can take precaution against an ambush, and even then nothing is certain. 

Gemma doesn’t quite relax around Louis, but she certainly softens some. Zayn’s presence puts her at ease, and she finds it easy to joke around with him. She is more guarded with Louis directly but doesn’t seem too bothered by him when they stop to camp at night, or when they share a meal. She still watches him warily, but there’s a respect there Louis recognises. He feels it for her the same way. 

They’re the first to arrive. The spot that they’ve chosen is high at the top of a hill, covered in yellowed grass. There is a patchwork of tall, grey trees on its crest. They’ll offer coverage enough from the sun, and the height of the hill gives them the tactical advantage if there were any sort of attack. It’s impossible for an enemy to sneak up on them when they have a clear view of their surrounding. Everything is so dry in this country. 

Louis slumps gratefully into the shade. His skin is red, seared by the afternoon sun. Zayn and Gemma seem used to it, far happier for the heat that surrounds them. Louis sits down at the base of one of the trees, leaning back against smooth bark and sighing. 

Then it’s only a matter of waiting. 

It takes three hours for Liam to arrive. He appears from the woods at the southside of the hill, another person riding at his side. All three of them stiffen at the sight of them, standing up quickly and watching them approach. 

Louis’ been nervous for days, but a new flavour of it brews in him now. He’s never met Edoard himself, but everything he’s heard says he’s an older man. Certainly less mobile than the man who rides at Liam’s side. 

Zayn takes a few steps back as the horses ride close. He’s not here to be a part of the negotiation, he’s here to witness or to step in if things become difficult. 

Louis and Gemma hold ranks, stepping into line with one another. It feels odd to stand at her side, the clear mark of an ally, when he knows she doesn’t see him that way at all. 

“This is it then.” Gemma murmurs. “It’s all been for this.” 

Louis nods, a tiny movement. Liam and his friend are too close now for anything more than that. He doesn't let his lips move. “Let’s hope it’s all been worth it.” 

Liam pulls his horse to a stop about a metre in front of them. He looks tired. His lips are burnt from the wind and his skin is pink, probably the same as Louis’ is. He smiles at Louis as he steps down from his horse, his face warm as always. 

The man beside him follows Liam’s lead, dismounting and landing lightly on two feet. He’s dressed well. Louis can see that his clothes are made of fine pale silks, his jacket an exquisite light leather. There’s no mistaking the origins of such fabric. He is Sicean, that much is obvious. But he is not King Edoard.

Warily, Louis steps forward to greet Liam. He takes a firm grip of Liam’s arm and pulls him into a quick embrace, clapping him on the back. “Liam.”

Liam squeezes his arm tightly, then steps back. “Lou,” he says. He would never greet Louis like this in front of other people, so Louis has to work at not looking surprised. It must be a tactic of some sort, perhaps a way to prove to this stranger the strength of Liam’s relationship with Louis. “You’re well?” 

Louis nods. “Very. Who’s this?”

“This is Prince Michal.” 

Very quickly, the man at Liam’s side takes on new importance. Louis doesn’t quite manage to keep his surprise off his face. He turns, and says, “You’re—?” 

Michal anticipates Louis’ question. “Edoard is my father, yes.” 

He’s a tall man, slender, with fair hair and bright eyes. Louis has no idea what parts of him are his father’s. 

“I see,” Louis says. “And is your father…?” 

“He won’t be joining us today.” 

Gemma shifts at Louis’ side. He has no idea what she might be thinking, and he doesn’t like to guess. She could leave anytime she likes. It would be a little hypocritical of them to complain — Louis and Zayn did not have Queen Anne with them, after all. Gemma and Michal held equal power here, neither of them rulers yet, but destined to be one day. Gemma, Louis at least knows a little about. He knows she has sway with her mother and the respect of their people. Louis knows nothing about the relationship between Edoard and his son. 

He twists a little and tries not to look too urgent. “Liam?” 

Liam has his hands up already. “I know,” he says. “But just listen.” 

“Did you meet with Edoard?” 

He feels a little too exposed having this conversation in front of Michal and Gemma, but there’s not an alternative. It’s not as if there’s any private space here. 

Liam shakes his head. “No.”

Louis fights not to look too panicked. So Michal isn’t even here with his father’s knowledge? “So what—?” 

Michal steps forward, though. He holds a hand out, stealing Louis’ attention back. “My father has failed to take Damenz, but he has the city surrounded. We’ve blocked the ways in and out of the city. My father is quite content to wait for the city to starve itself.” 

Gemma bristles, but stays quiet. Louis’ impressed by her control, honestly. Those are her people that King Edoard is waiting to starve out. If he heard as much about one of his cities he’s not sure he would have been able to stay so silent. 

Liam nods along with Michal’s description. “The camp circles the city. I approached from the north, was met by guards and escorted in.”

Louis doesn’t like the idea of Liam riding into a situation like that. He swallows. “They saw the white colours?” 

They’d given Liam white strips of fabric to ride in with, two to wrap around each of his arms and another to tie to the saddle of his horse. “They did. I asked to speak to the King and we organised a meeting. Michal found me before it could happen.” 

“I saw the colours when he was riding,” Michal says. “I knew I couldn’t let him speak to my father.” 

Louis swallows. “Why not?” 

“My father is not interested in negotiating, or having any sort of conversation with you.” Michal looks at Gemma now, clearly understanding her significance, even if he doesn’t know exactly who she is. “Especially not with Queen Anne.” 

“Why?” Gemma asks. She doesn’t introduce herself, she just steps forward, jutting her chin up and out. It’s a challenge if Louis has ever seen one.

Michal takes it all in his stride. “If you have to ask, you clearly haven’t met my father.”

“Surely he’s reasonable,” Louis says. 

Michal’s gaze flicks to him. “The only thing that is sure is that if my father knew of this meeting, he would be doing everything in his power to stop it.”

“So you’re here?” Gemma asks. She doesn’t hide it as she sizes him up, looking him up and down. “In his place?” 

Again, he doesn’t back down. “Yes. Surely you don’t have a problem with that as you are very clearly not Queen Anne.” 

“I am not.” 

Louis clears his throat. “Michal, Liam. This is Princess Gemma.”

Gemma shakes her head, dismissing the introduction. “Please, let’s dispense with the titles. They don’t matter here.”

“Your mother wouldn’t come?” Michal asks. 

“I wouldn’t let her,” Gemma says. “It appears I made the right decision.”

They pause. The air is charged, more than it had been in the small room when Louis had first suggested this to Gemma. Even though he’d had to argue in his own favour, Gemma had been willing to listen. To let Louis convince her that he wasn’t her enemy. She doesn’t look at Michal the same way. 

They are enemies.

Michal considers her for a long moment. “But you’re here. For what?” 

Gemma raises a brow. “You’re the one who’s invaded my country. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” 

For a moment, Louis expects tensions to flare. It would be only natural, considering the circumstances. But Michal simply nods. “That seems fair to me. I’m here to talk.” 

That startles Gemma. She recovers quickly. “About what?” 

“A different path. As far as my father is concerned, there is only one way forward, but I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t think you do either, or none of us would be here.” He looks away from Gemma and refocuses on Louis. “You’re Louis?” He waits for Louis to nod and then says, “That must be the reason you’ve brought us together.”

“I want you to speak to each other,” Louis says. He moves so he’s not so much on Gemma’s side, but standing more evenly between them. “That’s all I can do.” 

“You think there’s another path?” Gemma asks. 

“I do.” When Michal nods, Louis believes him. He says it with such certainty, it’s difficult not to. “I have to. Otherwise, all that’s left is the murders of our people.” 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowed, analytic. “And you don’t want that?” 

“Of course not.” 

She takes a long, deep breath. Every inch of her is hard, her stance, the stern line of her jaw. Her arms, folded across her chest, are another barrier up between her and Michal. Her voice is cold. “Forgive me for not trusting you.” 

“I’m sorry but I won’t.” He stands tall, firm, in the face of her aggression. He watches her carefully. “I don’t have any way to prove to you that I don’t want this fight to happen, save for being here. So I’m here. And you will have to trust that.” 

Gemma breathes sharply through her nose. She just watches him for another moment, her eyes narrowed. Then she nods. “Fine.” 

Michal doesn’t smile, but the corner of his lips twitch like he wants to. He's pleased. “Good, okay. Good.” 

Another pause. Louis glances at Liam but even that movement feels risky. The air is so tight between them all that it might shatter at any moment. The look on Liam’s face suggests that he feels it too. He gives Louis a tiny nod though, a little moment of encouragement. It spurns Louis on. 

He brings his hands up, bracketing Gemma and Michal between them. “Let’s sit down,” he says. They’re still standing exactly where Michal and Liam had dismounted and it feels too confrontational for anything successful to be achieved. Further, in amongst the trees, Louis has laid down a large blanket for them all to sit down on. He hopes that seated the tension might ease just a little. 

They move easily enough with him, following as he directs them to the mat. Zayn chooses that moment to circle them, keeping his distance and walking slowly to Liam’s side. When he makes it there, Liam pulls him into a tight embrace, a warm hug far less formal than he had been with Louis. Louis wishes he could join them — their job is done here. Louis’ is only just beginning. 

At the mat, Louis is the first to sit down. He puts himself to one side and lets Gemma and Michal move around him. Gemma sits carefully to his left. She crosses her legs, taking full advantage of the maneuverability her leather pants provide. Again, Louis thinks it’s tactical. She’s sitting the same way as them, their equal in every way. 

They both look to Louis, waiting. 

He clears his throat. “Let’s start at the beginning,” he says, turning to Michal. “We know you’re here for the iron mines. What we don’t know is why.” 

Michal takes that in, nodding. Louis and Gemma watch him think for a moment, clearly deciding the best way to approach such a question. In the end, he seems to decide to just be direct. 

He looks to Gemma. “The cost of iron is too high.” 

“We give you the same prices that we give everyone else.” Gemma doesn’t even hesitate. The only sign of any anger brewing in her is the minute tightening of her lips. “Why should you be treated any differently?” 

Michal breaks their stare, looking briefly down at the mat between them. It’s made in a distinct Ryde style, covered in bright reds and lush greens, telling the story of an old battle. Louis doesn’t know exactly which one. On the ground between them, there’s a group of soldiers, watching each other across an empty field, waiting for the order to fight. Michal’s eyes skate over the picture, and he swallows. 

“We’ve had some trouble, the past few years.” 

Louis frowns. “You have?” 

He’s heard nothing of the sort. Sicea’s reputation has always been one of true prosperity. A country that wants for nothing. It’s one of the reasons this attack had caught everyone so off guard. 

Michal nods. “There’s been — our crops have been failing. It’s been warm, too warm these past few years, and nothing has been growing the way that it should. Our people haven’t had enough food.” 

A quick look at Gemma tells Louis she’s just as surprised as he is. A frown dances on her brow, confused. “We’ve had no word of such difficulties.” 

She’s thinking of her spies in Sicea, undoubtedly. It’s what Louis’ thinking of. How can they not have known? 

Michal must be able to read it in them. “My father wanted it kept quiet, to save panic. The cities haven’t been as impacted as the smaller towns.” 

“You could have asked us for help,” Louis says. His mother would never have turned them away if they’d told them of a food shortage. 

Michal shakes his head. There’s something sad about him, leaking through his determined expression. It’s like he knows that Louis’ telling the truth, that they could have had help if they’d only _asked._

“He’s grown paranoid, as he’s gotten older.” He can only be speaking about King Edoard. “I don’t know what happened. I think it started when my mother died. I thought he might get better but he hasn’t. He thought that if word were to spread about the famine, then our enemies would use it as a reason to attack.” 

They are not enemies, though. Or at least they weren’t, before all of this. 

Gemma looks to the sky, frustration shining through her. “What does the iron have to do with this?” 

“To keep it quiet, we’ve been buying food from Erinea, increasing the amount a little with every meeting,” Michal says. “We’ve nothing to trade with them, so we’ve been paying them in silver.” 

Slowly, Louis nods. “You need the iron to mine the silver?” 

As soon as he says it, Gemma’s eyes widen. All the puzzle pieces slot together so neatly that Michal doesn’t even need to confirm it for them. 

“We’re mining at a rate that we’ve never had to before,” Michal says. “Your iron is the only source we have to make the tools.” 

“You need more of it?” Gemma asks. 

“Yes,” Michal says gravely. “We can’t pay your rates and also pay Erinea. So…” He trails off meaningfully. 

“So you decided you’d just take it?” A flash of anger crossed Gemma’s face, quick and hot, but she controls herself masterfully. Louis watches as she tampers it back down, schooling her features. 

Michal has the decency to look ashamed. “My father decided it was the best thing for Sicea.” 

“A war.” Gemma looks like she wants to stand, shifting where she’s sitting. She moves her hands aimlessly, behind her at first then folded across her front. “A war when your country is already starving.” 

Michal bows his head. He’s looking at the picture on the mat beneath them again. “Like I said. He’s not as rational as he once was.” 

Louis thinks that Gemma is readying for an offensive. She seems so restless, sitting the way that they are, filled with helpless anger and one clear outlet for it. She proves him wrong, though. She settles herself, falling still and taking a deep breath, and Louis is reminded that they are still strangers to one another. 

“You don’t think it’s rational?” 

Michal’s gaze flicks up to meet hers. The look is charged between them. “We’re already short on iron for the mines,” he says. “The ships we could build because they’re made of wood. If there was ever anything we have a surplus of it’s that. But I’m afraid wooden swords and wooden armour isn’t quite as effective.” 

Louis hadn’t made that connection yet. As the severity of it lands on him, he feels suddenly overwhelmed by the choice King Edoard has made. If they don’t have the resources to simply mine, how the hell could he count on resources to win a war? 

Michal keeps watching Gemma. “If we do this, my people are going to die. I’ll do everything I can to stop that happening.” 

She takes another moment to watch him, digesting his words. Then she nods. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“I believe you,” she tells him. “I trust you.” 

Michal braves a smile. It’s a hesitant thing, but he’s pleased. He’s pleased to have won Gemma to his side. “Alright then.” 

Louis lets out a quiet breath. A part of him loosens. They are not finished, not by a long shot, but it’s another hurdle overcome. “So we want the same things,” he concludes. “Good. Now we just have to figure out how to get them.” 

Gemma thinks about that for a moment. “Say we lower the price of iron,” she says. “We could half the cost until your crops are healthy again. Would that make your father turn back?” 

Michal winces and again Louis can predict his answer. “I don’t think so.” He sounds sorry to be saying it. “I think that he’s too proud.” 

Louis clears his throat. “If you half the price of your iron and Edoard still insists on this war, my mother will be compelled to speak.” 

“So Ryde would be behind us?” Gemma asks. 

Louis nods. They can sit squarely in the middle for now, but if Edoard is to make a clear statement — that he will wage war at any end — there is no room for Ryde to remain silent. 

Gemma looks back to Michal. “What would your father say to that?” 

Michael looks between them, nervous. Louis doesn’t like the lack of confidence on his face. “I’m not sure.” 

“Would he turn on Ryde?” 

“It’s a possibility.” 

For the first time, Louis truly curses the old king. What a fool, to push a conflict for such stupid reasons. If he’d just asked for help in the first place, they wouldn’t have to be here. To have come to this point, all due to one man's pride, turned Louis’ stomach. All those lives, because one man wasn’t bold enough to admit he was weak. 

Gemma huffs, sounding just as frustrated. “What are we even doing here if nothing will stop your father?” she demands. “What was the point in your coming at all?” 

Michal leans forward a little, his voice low but determined. “My father won’t stop because of Andras, or because of Ryde. He doesn’t care about you or your people.” 

“Oh yes.” A dry laugh leaves Gemma. “He’s made that abundantly clear.” 

Michal presses on though. “He cares about our people though. His right to rule, his reputation as a good king, it means everything to him.” To emphasise his point, he points his fingers down into the mat. It lands on the picture, right on the chest of one of the figures waiting for battle. “We need to find a way of putting that at risk.” 

“Is it not already at risk?” Louis asks. “He’s marching your people to war for nothing.” 

“They don’t know that it’s for nothing. All they know is that they’re starving, and my father is doing what he thinks is best.” 

Louis can see how framed that way, the war might make sense to the people of Sicea. “What would change their mind?” 

“If there was some sort of offer, made by Andras, to assist with the famine,” Michal says. “I think that would sway them to our side.” 

“I’ve just offered to half the cost of iron!” Gemma says, indignant. 

Hasty, Michal nods his head. He raises his hands in the air, placatingly, as if Gemma is brandishing a weapon. “That isn’t—” he stops, takes a breath, and tries again. “There’s no certainty in that. There’s nothing stopping you from rising prices again, whenever you choose. If we take it from you then there’s no risk the cost would change.” 

Now Gemma is gearing up for a fight. Louis can see it in the way her eyes go wide, a little feral. He pushes in before she can say anything. “They need certainty then?” 

Michal keeps a wary eye on Gemma. “Yes.” 

Louis looks carefully between them. The idea has been at the back of his mind since he set sail. Just an option, an impossible one, but one that couldn’t quite be discounted altogether. But he needs to be sure. “Something formal.” 

Michal nods again. “Yes.” His attention shifts to Louis now, seeing some sense of an idea brewing in him. “What are you thinking?” 

Gemma answers for Louis. “A marriage.” When Louis’ gaze flicks to her, she’s watching him with narrowed eyes. 

Michal starts. “What?” 

Gemma doesn’t take her gaze from Louis though. She looks at him and sees right through him. “He’s thinking of a marriage.” 

There’s no point in shying away from it. 

“It’s the most certain thing we can do,” Louis says. “Form a bond between your countries, something unbreakable, and they would trust that the prices won’t change.” 

That earns him a vicious look. “Interesting to hear that you think of such an arrangement as unbreakable,” Gemma sneers. 

Louis can’t help but flinch a little at that. They both see it, although Louis can tell Michal doesn’t understand the significance of Gemma’s words. He gathers himself quickly though, making himself meet Gemma’s stern look. “It was an engagement that was broken,” he reminds her. “Not a marriage. If someone is wed, that cannot be undone.” 

He’s right. He can see that she doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t fight him again. 

“Someone.” Michal is more focused on the immediate matter at hand. “Who?” 

Gemma rolls her eyes. “Forgive me,” she says, “but I think it’s fairly obvious who Louis has in mind.” 

Michal isn’t a slow man. He looks at her, waits for a beat to be sure, and then says, “Us?” 

Again, there’s no benefit in dancing around the subject, so Louis just nods. “Yes.” 

They all fall silent again. Both Michal and Gemma seem to forget Louis entirely, now that the idea is out in the open. They assess each other warily, like two predators stuck in a small cage. 

“Would it stop your father?” Gemma asks finally. “If we—?” 

Michal nods, the movement a little jerky. “If he didn’t, he would certainly turn the people against him.” 

Another pause, another moment to think. 

“And you’re,” Gemma swallows, “unattached?” 

Michal speaks slowly. “I am. Are you?”

“Yes.” 

Suddenly, Louis feels as if he’s intruding. He fights the urge to pull back, to step away and give them this moment of their own. His memories push at him, the dark garden and the scattered moon. There is a tug at his chest as he remembers being a part of this conversation himself, how foolish Harry had thought him to even ask. 

There is none of that here, at least. 

“So we—” Again, Michal stumbles. It’s more reassuring than anything. To Louis, it says that Michal is a man like any other, nervous in the face of agreeing to such a thing. Louis also recognises the prince in him. The determination to see something like this through, for his country. “We get married.” 

Gemma is harder to read. Her eyes are hard as steel, but there’s a pink at her neck and ears that suggest she isn’t as unaffected as she’d like to be. “Yes.” 

“You’re accepting?” Michal asks. 

And, almost absurdly, Gemma smiles. It’s possibly the most genuine thing Louis has seen on her face, aside from those short moments when she’d spoken to Zayn. There’s a light in her, something like hope. It’s contagious. This might save them. 

“You haven’t really asked me, have you?”

She’s — she’s _teasing_ him. 

A smile plays at Michal’s lips too, like he wants to hope but doesn’t dare. “Will you marry me then?” 

Gemma tilts her head a little. “Are you a man of your word?” 

“I am.” 

“You do good by your people?” 

Michal watches her calmly, his smile growing. “As much as I can,” he says. “I can do better.” 

“What if your father still refuses to pull back?” Gemma turns a little serious again. It’s a good question, one that must be asked. “What will you do if we are married then?” 

Michal sets his jaw. “You will be my wife. That is not a vow that I make lightly. My allegiance will be to you.” 

“Give me your word.” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “You have it.” 

She makes them wait for a beat, then another, before finally nodding. “Then yes,” she says. “I’ll marry you.” 

Louis feels winded. The breeze could knock him over if it tried. This is — they’ve — 

“Then it is settled,” Michal says. “Our countries are one.” 

They’ve done it. 

When Louis looks to Liam and Zayn, they are watching on with incredulous looks on their face. Liam’s is the first to crack, a brilliant smile spilling onto his face, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. 

_They’ve done it._

Gemma nods. “They will be.” Then she turns to Louis. “We need a priest.” 

♚

It takes them three hours, in total, to marry Andras and Sicea. Zayn and Liam race like the wind to the nearest town, while Louis waits at the hill with Gemma and Michal. He leaves them on their own, giving them their privacy to speak alone. He hears Gemma ask about Michal’s favourite games, and Michal ask about Gemma’s fastest speed on horseback. He doesn’t listen in too closely to their responses, but by the time Zayn and Liam return they are smiling at one another. 

The priest they bring with them performs the rites without question. He understands their urgency — seems a little paled by it when he realises just who it is that he’s marrying — but he does the job well. 

Gemma and Michal kiss just before the sun sets behind the hill. Liam and Louis are their formal witnesses, signing the marriage certificate and formalising the union. 

Then it is done. They’re married. 

Their job doesn’t end there, of course. The first thing they do as a wed couple is sit down and author several letters, all saying the same thing. The most important of them are for Queen Anne and King Edoard. Michal and Gemma will deliver those themselves, personally. The rest are for the other countries, Ryde, Erinea, Redrun, and all the rest of their neighbours. They tell of the union, the proud combining of two strong countries who can help one another. 

“This will not become another of my father’s secrets,” Michal promises them all. “I will see to it.” 

He and Gemma don’t kiss when they part. They’re husband and wife, but they’re still strangers. They share a nod, instead. They don’t trust each other wholly, not yet, but Louis thinks they will one day. 

Once Michal is gone, the rest of them set up camp for the night. There is no use in them riding out tonight — they have thick forests to navigate and will get nowhere without the light. 

They sit quietly on the same mat that they’d used to form the allegiance. All of them are quiet, contemplative. Perhaps a little shocked, too. 

It surprises Louis when, once their meal is done, Gemma moves quietly to Louis’ side. She hasn’t seemed very interested in speaking to him before, so it catches him a little off guard. But things have changed, haven’t they? 

He’s been sitting a little further down the hill, looking out at the wide, starry sky. She drops down next to him, nudging him with her elbow. It’s the most familiar she’s been with him.

“Hi,” she says. 

Louis shoots her a quizzical look. He thinks she’ll forgive him — surely she understands why he might be a little confused. “Hello.” 

She smiles. It’s a lovely thing to have directed at him, warm and open. “We said a few days ago that if this went well I’d be the one thanking you.” 

Louis flushes almost immediately. He looks away, down at his knees. “There’s no need—” 

“Don’t get shy on me now,” she says, over his protests. “This wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you.” 

It seems absurd to think that Louis was the only one to think a meeting between both countries could have been beneficial. If it hadn’t been him, someone else would have suggested it. He just did it first. 

“Your mother might have—” 

Gemma cuts him off again. “She wouldn’t have.” Then she nudges him a second time. “We both know that King Edoard wouldn’t have agreed even if she had requested to meet. Your mother had no plans to play negotiator between us. This was all you.” 

Louis clears his throat awkwardly. The back of his neck feels hot and itchy. “We couldn’t have done it without Liam.” 

Gemma huffs. “I know that, and I’ll thank him too. But you’re going to let me thank you, now.” 

She says it like an order, so clear that it feels silly of him to fight with her. He relents, his cheeks warm. “Fine.” 

She grins at him, pleased. Then she shifts, makes sure that he’s looking straight at her, and her face turns serious. “Thank you, Louis. I mean it.” 

He swallows around a thickness that rises in his throat. His chest feels tight. “You’re. You’re welcome.” 

She seems satisfied with that. “Good,” she says. “I want you to know that if there’s ever anything that you need, you only need to write me a letter. I’ll be there.” 

Louis smiles tightly. He feels impossibly awkward. “That’s very good of you.” 

“It’s the least I can do, actually.” Gemma shoots him a look, similar to one he might give the twins if they were behaving childishly. It makes him blush again. 

He tries to look at her more seriously, hear her words properly. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll remember that.” 

Her smile turns warm again. “Good. See that you do. And get some rest, you’ve got a long journey home.” 

Gemma is riding with them back towards their ship tomorrow. She’ll leave them there and then head on her own to Vierres. He’s not looking forward to getting back on that damned ship, but at least with each day that passes he’ll be a little closer to home. There’s comfort in that. 

She goes to stand, brushing some dirt off the seat of her pants. She’s taken a few steps away from him when a thought suddenly occurs. 

“Oh!” 

The sound escapes him without purpose. It stops Gemma.

“Yes?” 

Louis clears his throat. “There is, actually, something you could do for me.” His heart thunders at the thought of asking, but it’s better than the alternative. 

Gemma grins. “That didn’t take long.” 

He fights the urge to duck his head again. “Yes, well. Um.” He starts nodding, a small little movement, almost encouraging himself to push on and just _ask_. “I expect that Harry will return to Andras soon if this all goes the way that we want.” 

He’s wary of saying the war is ended already. They’ve done what they can, they’ve made the surest move they can to turning King Edoard and his force around, but there are no guarantees. There’s just hope, and he won’t jinx that. 

Gemma nods, a small frown appearing on her face. She’s confused. “Yes?” 

“When he does,” Louis goes on. “Can you — would you please keep me from your stories?” 

And doesn’t that make him sound pompous? He doesn’t want to assume he’ll be in her stories at all, but at the same time, he can’t take the risk. He doesn’t want Harry to know that he was here. 

Gemma’s frown grows more pronounced. “What?”

“I’d prefer if he didn’t know that I was here, or that I was a part of this.” Louis motions at the hill, as if that encompasses everything they’ve done. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell him.” 

Harry has made no secret of how he feels about Louis. To find out that Louis came here and risked the life of his sister, then orchestrated her marriage to the enemy — it’s just another thing that Harry will hate him for. 

Gemma moves slowly back to his side. She sits down again, keeping her face forward to the stars. Carefully, she says, “Do you mind if I ask why?” 

Louis risks a dry chuckle. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.” 

She sits with that for a moment, contemplative. Her knees come up to her chest and she settles her arms on them, more relaxed than he’s ever seen her. It’s surprising, considering Louis’ asking her to lie to her brother. 

She doesn’t talk about that though. “My brother isn’t the sort of man to judge someone by one poor choice,” she says slowly. “Are you truly sure he hates you so?” 

She means it kindly but it makes Louis flinch. He’s well aware that Harry is a good man, a forgiving man. He knows that intimately, from the Harry he’d met through the letters. It’s just that Louis hasn’t done anything to earn that. 

“I didn’t make just one poor choice,” he tells Gemma. “I made many.” 

“Even so.” 

Louis shakes himself a little, aching to move on from this and just hear her answer. “I think your brother would like it best if I simply left him alone,” he tells her honestly. “I’d like to do at least that for him.” 

Gemma’s not happy with this request, that much is clear, but she doesn’t seem angry. She sighs. “Well, I’d be a fool to question your judgement now, after everything.” 

Louis’ not sure he’s earned that either, but he’s not going to tell her that. “So you won’t tell him?” 

“I won’t.” 

A weight lifts from his shoulders and he lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.” 

She reaches over and takes a firm grip of his arm. She squeezes until he turns to look at her, take in the firm, gentle look on her face. 

“No, Louis,” she says. “Truly. _Thank you._ ” 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	7. Chapter 7

♚

The King of Sicea has retreated. 

It seems as if the entire city is buzzing with the news. It had come from the Queen herself. All of her contacts have reported the same thing. The city of Damenz is surrounded no longer, and King Edoard has left Andras shores, on a path for home. 

Oh, and Harry’s sister is married. 

His stomach turns at the thought. He’d felt sick when he’d heard the news, also delivered by Queen Johannah. ‘ _Your sister is wed to Prince Michal of Sicea,’_ she told him three days ago. ' _Congratulations.’_

Harry didn’t understand it. He’d gaped at Niall, unable to hide his true reaction, and uninterested in protecting any of their onlookers from his real thoughts. Niall had been just as thrown by the news, but he’d been faster to come around to it. 

Andras is Sicea’s ally now, he had said to Harry. King Edoard cannot continue with his attack now. 

And he was right. 

“I don’t understand you,” Charlotte tells him, frowning. “I thought you would be pleased.” 

They’re sitting in the library again. It’s become something of a haven to Harry over the past few months. At first, when his plans with Niall had failed and they’d realised he was truly trapped in Ryde, he’d wanted to stay in his rooms. Niall had once again convinced him against that plan. There was no benefit to Harry in doing that. They had no obligation to hide themselves away, or let Queen Johannah forget the choice that she’d made. 

Instead, they’d made a point to be seen. Harry met the Queen’s gaze every time she walked past him, made sure she saw the accusation plain on his face. He planned to do the same to Louis but had been robbed of the choice. He hadn’t seen Louis since the night in the garden. While Harry had chosen to hold his head high, Louis had apparently chosen to keep his face hidden. 

Harry didn’t mind that so much. The less he saw Louis, the less occasion he had to think about that night. About the proposal that he’d so thoroughly shot down. 

“How can I be pleased?” Harry asks Charlotte now, snapping his book shut. He’s reading a poetry book from one of the deeper passages of the library. It’s old and sends a cloud of dust into his face when it closes. He has to pause to cough for a moment, which certainly doesn’t help his mood. “My sister is now bound to the very family that sought to invade our home.” 

He doesn’t know much about Prince Michal, but if he’s anything like his father then Harry knows he isn’t to be trusted. The thought of Gemma married to him, wife to a man like that, makes Harry’s blood boil. 

Charlotte just sighs. “Yes,” she agrees, “but by her marriage, she has prevented the invasion. This is good news.” 

She’s been trying to convince him of this since they’d heard word this morning. They’ve talked mostly in circles, Harry steadfastly refusing to change his mind on this. “Not for Gemma.” 

Being trapped in the castle means that he’s also been trapped with Charlotte. They’ve grown fairly close, he might even say friends if he wasn’t so annoyed with her now. 

She doesn’t shy away from rolling her eyes at him. “Your sister knows her duty the same as any of us,” she says. “If a marriage is what it takes to save a country, then your sister’s sacrifice is more than worth it.” 

Harry scoffs but says nothing. 

It’s difficult to argue with her. She’s been kind to him, more than he deserves at times. The anger that sits in him would be far better directed at Queen Johannah. It’s her inaction that has allowed this to come to be, after all. 

“Harry,” Niall says, using his most reasonable voice. It’s the same tone he uses when he’s talking to his young nephew, and Harry bristles a little to hear it now directed at him. “Gemma wouldn’t go into something like this blindly. She’s clever — far cleverer than you.” Charlotte and Thomas snort at that, and Harry shoots them both a glare. “She knows what she’s doing.” 

Harry scratches his nail through some of the dust that’s collected on the spine of his book. “She shouldn’t have _had_ to do it.” 

He knows that they’re right. He knows that a choice like this was always on the cards for Gemma, the same as it has been for him. Doing this and putting a stop to King Edoard’s attack is undoubtedly the right thing to have done. 

But he doesn’t have to be happy about it. 

Niall sighs. “That doesn’t matter now, Harry,” he says. “I know you’re scared for you, but it’s happened now. You have to trust that she made the right choice.” 

God knows everyone else in the world does. Along with the whispers of King Edoard’s retreat, all Harry’s heard about is his sister’s bravery. Her willingness to protect her people, by any means. Rumour has it that even their mother didn’t know of her plan until the wedding was done. 

Harry scowls down at his lap and huffs. “Fine.” 

Gemma is clever, Niall’s right about that too. Harry just hopes that she gave at least some thought to her own happiness, instead of thinking solely about what was good for Andras. The thought makes him cringe. 

Something Charlotte said to him echoes in his mind. _You need to think like a leader,_ she’d said to him. Gemma had done just that by accepting Prince Michal as a husband. 

Harry hadn’t. 

Faced with the same offer, Harry had valued himself over his country. What Louis offered wasn’t a promise or a guarantee, but it was a chance. Harry had taken that chance and shot it down, with no thought to his country. 

The morning after his conversation with Louis, Harry hadn’t wanted to recognise the heaviness in his chest as guilt. He had ignored the feeling, pushing it down within him and burying it underneath all the other reasons he had to be upset. For a while, it had been easy, but with Gemma's choice now whispered through the halls, there was no avoiding it. 

He had the chance to think like a leader of a country might, and he’d gotten it wrong. If he’d gotten it right, Gemma might still be free. 

Niall watches Harry like he has some inkling of what’s going on in Harry’s head. He doesn’t know the details — yet again, Harry had kept the details of his conversation with Louis to himself — but he can clearly see something playing behind Harry’s eyes. He shoots Harry another curious look now, before turning back to Charlotte. 

“Do you know what this might mean for me and Harry?” Niall asks. 

Charlotte frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Niall looks a little awkward. “Well,” he clears his throat, “You and Harry are no longer engaged, and your mother has no reason to keep him here. I can only assume that means we’ll be sent home.” 

Harry startles at the thought. He hadn’t thought about that. 

It catches Charlotte and Thomas off guard as well. Thomas shoots them a look that could almost be hurt. “Are you so anxious to leave?” 

Pink at his ears, Niall ducks his head. “Not anxious, per se. But it’s not as if Harry is here on a holiday. We came for a purpose, and that purpose no longer exists.” 

An odd feeling settles over Harry. A sense of being adrift, purposeless, as useless now as he had been when his country had been in peril. He and Charlotte have been engaged for so long, his idea of his life had once been so set, that he feels listless without it now. King Edoard’s attack had been a good distraction from those sorts of thoughts, but with his surrender, there was nothing left to shield Harry from them. 

Thomas doesn’t seem pleased by Niall’s answer, but he doesn’t fight. He sinks back into his chair, glancing at Charlotte. Concern is written on his features and it sends a pang through Harry. At the very least, his departure shouldn’t affect Charlotte too poorly. Thomas will make sure of that. 

Charlotte hums, oblivious to the look. “I suppose you’re right,” she says to Niall. 

“So you haven’t heard anything?” Niall asks. 

She shakes her head. “No. But I can speak to my mother if you like?” 

Harry jumps in there. He doesn’t like the idea of sending her to ask questions on his behalf. It might give Johannah the impression that he’s afraid to ask her himself. “I can do that.” 

“There’s no need.” 

They all startle when the voice sounds from behind them. Harry has his back to the door, so he twists in his chair. The last person he’s expecting to see is Louis, but there he is, leaning against the frame of the door. 

He looks different, somehow. Harry only has a few seconds to take him in, try and see what’s changed about him. His skin is a little darker like he’s been out in the sun. His nose and forehead are even a little burned, the skin there peeling. The golden hue to his skin makes his hair appear lighter, his eyes bluer. 

“Louis!” Charlotte jumps to her feet, her book forgotten. “You’re back!” 

She’s across the library in an instant, pulling her brother into her arms. Harry forgets the fondness she carries for Louis. He doesn’t often see them together, especially not of late. The idea of anyone racing across the room to meet Louis seems outlandish to Harry, but then he’d do the same if he were to see Gemma again. 

Confusion tugs at him. Harry has thought that Louis was hiding away from him, avoiding him because of the awkward marriage proposal, but Charlotte’s words suggest he’s been truly absent from the castle. That, or he was hiding from them all. 

It doesn’t escape Harry that Louis glances at him warily before replying to his sister. He holds her arms gently, smiling in a soft way that seems reserved only for his family. “I am.” 

“Where have you been?” Charlotte asks immediately. 

Again, Louis looks to Niall and Harry. A tightness appears to his eyes. So he has been away, Harry thinks. But where? And doing what? 

“It’s not important,” Louis says to Charlotte gently. He gives her a meaningful look, one that is clear in his intent. He'll tell her about it, but not here, not in their current company. 

Harry hopes Charlotte might fight him on it, but she doesn't. “Well,” she says. “I’m glad you’re safe. It’s good to see you.” 

She hugs him again. Louis returns the embrace warmly, still so much softer than the man Harry knows him to be. The sight of it pulls at Harry’s stomach and he shifts, uncomfortable. 

“What do you mean there’s no need?” He interrupts their hug, demanding Louis’ attention. 

Louis released Charlotte slowly, reluctantly. Harry has a flash of a man lowering a shield, the same look on his face. Absurdly, guilt swells in him then too. No one’s looked at Harry like that before. Like Harry’s preparing to attack him and there’s nothing that they can do to stop it. 

“My mother has sent me to find you,” Louis says. “She wanted me to tell you that you’re welcome to return to Ryde whenever you choose.” 

Harry can’t believe it. “When _I_ choose?” 

But Louis nods like it’s nothing; like they haven’t kept him, prisoner, for the last three months. “Yes. But we thought you might like to stay a little while longer.”

Behind Harry, Niall snorts. Harry understands the impulse. He stares at Louis, just stopping himself from gaping. “ _Why_ would you think that?” 

At Louis’ side, Charlotte bristles. When Harry glances at her, he gets a glare in return and feels a little shamed by it. She’s been a good friend to him here, as has Thomas, but nothing else about this country has been kind to him. 

Louis doesn’t seem surprised by Harry’s question though. He was expecting it. “Your sister has announced a tour of all her neighbouring countries, along with her new husband,” he says simply. “They’ll be headed for Sicea first, but once they’re done there they’re coming our way. I — the Queen thought you might like to wait and make the journey home with her.” 

That’s — Harry hadn’t been expecting that. 

He deflates immediately. The idea that he might stay isn’t outlandish at all, considering that information. He almost doesn’t believe it. “Gemma’s coming here?” 

Louis nods. “Yes. She and Prince Michal will be here in a little under two months.” 

Harry could make it home in that time. If he left tomorrow, he’d be back in Andras far before Gemma landed on Ryde shores. But if her tour only begins in Sicea, then Ryde, then she’ll surely have several places left to go after that. She might not be back in Andras until after the summer. 

The idea of waiting that long to see his sister makes the decision for him. “Okay then. I’ll—” he glances at Niall, checking and seeing the same answer written on his face too, “—We’ll stay.” 

Louis smiles tightly. “Very good,” he says. “I’ll let her know what you’ve decided.” 

He doesn’t linger. His message delivered, Louis seems more than happy to vanish again. Charlotte only just catches his hand. “Wait,” she says. “I’ll come with you.” She doesn’t ask where he’s going, nor does she say goodbye to Harry or the others before she falls into step with him. 

The sounds of their conversation carry down the stone hallway. As soon as they are out of sight, a warmness colours their words that hadn’t been there before. 

Harry stares after them for a long time. It’s difficult to see Louis as someone that Charlotte — Charlotte who is so kind and so reasonable — loves so much, but the evidence is undeniable. 

For a moment he wonders what he’s missing, but then he pushes the thought from his mind. He just needs to wait for Gemma to arrive, then he’ll be free of this place forever. 

It does him no good to be intrigued by Louis now.

♚

Gemma’s imminent arrival brings with it a wave of new things for Harry to feel anxious about. First and foremost, he worries about her time in Sicea. She is with her new husband, so logically she is as safe as she could be, but awful thoughts plague him. What if the entire wedding was another of King Edoard’s tricks, a way of lulling them into a false sense of security before taking Gemma hostage? 

The weather is as dour as Harry’s mood, so even though he now has the option to ride out of the castle and clear his mind, the rain prevents him from doing so. He should have expected it to turn the second he was given his freedom back. He feels too distracted to sit down and read, though, and the library turns stifling, rather than the haven it had been before. 

In a tantrum of sorts, he ends up exploring the towers of the western side of the castle. He climbs until there are no stairs left, then wanders out into the battlements. They’re half-covered by tall shields that tower into the sky, there to protect anyone from incoming arrows. It serves as a shoddy cover from the rain, so Harry hides there, not minding the few errant drops that land on him. 

He thinks he’s as hidden as he could ever be, so he’s surprised when Charlotte finds him. 

“I heard you were wondering about up here,” Charlotte says warmly as she approaches him. She lifts her skirts so they don’t drag too much on the wet stone. “I thought I would come and find you.” 

He is going to miss her when he goes. She’s been one of the best things about this country. 

She edges in close, out of the rain. “How are you?” 

He considers her for a moment. “Do you really want to know?” 

That earns him a hard look. “Harry,” she says sternly. “Yes.” 

He’s coming to the end of her patience with questions like these, but he can’t stop himself asking them. It’s hard to remember that there are people here who care about him and his opinion. 

He sighs. “I’m. I don’t know how I am.” He looks out to the skyline again. Standing this high, they have a bird’s eye view of the entire city. Harry can see to the cliffs that they’d ridden to with Thomas, and beyond that even. It makes him feel very small. “So much has happened that I barely know what to do with it.” 

And he can’t even talk about half of it. The letters, Louis’ proposal, Harry’s inability to make the right judgements — all of that is his own to bear. At least he can talk about his concern for Gemma, his anxiousness to get home, without offending her. 

She gives him a soft and sympathetic look. “I know how that feels.” 

“You do?” 

She huffs a laugh. “Of course I do,” she says. “Do you really think our positions are so different?” 

She’s at home. She has her family with her. She knows with one-hundred-percent certainty that they’re safe. In that regard, they are complete opposites. But then, in all the others… 

Harry shakes his head. “Not really.” 

“When my mother called off our wedding, I was just as confused as you,” Charlotte says. “It changed my life in the same way that it changed yours.” 

She’s right. If there’s anyone who might understand the confusion that sits in his chest, it’s her. 

“I don’t know what to do with this feeling.” Harry presses his hand over his heart, the only way he can think to express the way that it’s constantly beating so much faster than it should. He feels caught in his own body, stifled there as much as he is in the castle. “My life has always been planned for me. I don’t — no one told me what it would be like to have a choice.” 

He feels raw saying it out loud. Charlotte must recognise some sense of vulnerability to him because she faces forward and doesn’t look at him. It gives him just a little space to breathe. “I know what you mean.” 

Harry glances down at her. She’s so different from the woman he met at Foley House. She’s more open and honest than he’d ever dared to hope, even when he’d still thought she was the author of the letters. 

Her voice is a little broken now, rough just at the edges, and he believes her. She knows exactly what he means. 

He clears his throat. “Do you think you’ll—” he pauses, wary that he may be crossing an uncrossable line, “—try with Thomas?” 

She does look at him then. Her gaze flicks to him fast, then away just as quickly. She doesn’t deny it, and Harry’s grateful for that. 

“I don’t know,” she says after a moment. 

Harry swallows. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped.” 

She shakes her head though. “You haven’t. I know that we’re not very subtle. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” 

Harry doesn’t dismiss it outright. Instead, he thinks back to the moments that their affection for one another was made clear, and wonders if it did make him feel anything. The only thing he can come up with is an odd sense of jealousy — not of Thomas himself, but of what he felt for Charlotte. There was a devotion in his eyes that Harry had never experienced himself, and a part of him yearned for it. 

So he shakes his head. “It didn’t,” he tells her. “Hasn’t.” 

She searches his face for a sign of a lie, but she doesn’t find one. Content, she nods, then quietly says, “Good.” 

“I think it’s nice.” Harry chooses his words carefully. This is unchartered territory for both of them. “He cares for you.” 

They have a real chance once Harry’s gone. A chance to build something real. 

Charlotte hums. “I know.” She seems a little nervous to be speaking about this out loud, and Harry can’t blame her for that. “He’s always been there for me, you know? He’s like Louis in some ways.” Then she hastily blushes. “Definitely not in other.” 

Harry chuckles. “I should hope not.” 

She digs her elbow into Harry’s side. “Hush you. I just meant that he’s always cared for me. I thought when you arrived that he might stop.” 

Harry thinks about the first time he’d met Thomas, how startled Charlotte had been and how flustered she’d become. It makes sense that she’d worry about Thomas’ opinion of her, especially with a fiance thrown into the picture. Thomas had been admirable in his treatment of them both, remaining kind no matter the circumstance. 

“I can’t see that happening,” Harry muses. 

A pretty smile flashes on Charlotte’s face. She stifles it, blushing. “No,” she agrees. “Me neither. Not anymore.” 

He’s pleased for her, he truly is. No matter how envious he is of her feelings, it’s lovely to see that she has them. That there’s a person who makes her happy despite all the rules and protocol that surrounds them. 

But then, that brings with it it’s own set of problems. 

“Will you speak to your mother?” Harry asks. 

Charlotte’s smile dims just a little. “I haven’t decided. I know that there’s no tactical advantage to the match, and she only has so many daughters. Your sister saved your country by making a political marriage.” 

“That doesn’t mean you have to do the same.” 

“I know.” 

Harry shifts a little, facing her more directly. “Your mother isn’t an unreasonable woman,” he says. “And it’s clear that she loves you. I think she’d listen.” 

Charlotte raises a brow. “I thought you hated my mother.” 

“I don’t hate her,” Harry says, flushing a little. He has to learn how to conceal his frustrations better. If Charlotte wasn’t so kind to him, he could be in a lot of trouble. “I disagree with some of the choices she’s made, but I understand why she made them.” 

It had taken him a long time to see them from Johannah’s perspective. He’d fumed in his rooms for days over it. Ultimately, though, he couldn’t deny that Johannah was out of other options.

“So you’ve forgiven her for keeping you here?” Charlotte asks. 

Harry sighs. “I don’t know about that.” 

Understanding Johannah’s motives and forgiving her for them were two different things. One was far easier to come by than the other. 

Charlotte tilts her head a little. Harry recognises a challenge on her brow before she says anything. “Will you forgive Louis?”

Harry stares at her. “I’m sorry?” 

“For whatever it is that he did to you to make you hate him so.” 

She says it simply as if there is no question at all that Harry hates her brother. It catches Harry completely off guard, winding him almost. How can she talk so easily of someone hating her brother? 

He splutters, entirely unsure what to say. “He — that’s different.” 

She doesn’t back down. “How?” 

Harry shifts again, looking straight at the horizon once more. His face is hot, he can feel the flush rising on his cheeks. He hadn’t expected to have to justify himself in this — he hadn’t expected her to ever bring it up. 

“The choices your mother made were political,” he says finally. “I don’t — I didn’t see them the same way she did, but I heard her explanation and have come to understand. What your brother did; there was no motive behind it save for malice.” 

It’s the one thing that he continues to come back to. No matter how soft Louis is to his sisters, or how rational his proposal in the garden might have been, Harry can’t see past the letters. Those damn letters. 

Louis will always be the man who tricked Harry into loving someone who didn’t exist, and that’s something that Harry won’t ever forgive. 

Charlotte hums thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything. Somehow that is more frustrating than anything else. 

“What?” Harry asks. 

Charlotte shrugs. “I don’t think you have the full story, is all.” 

Again, it’s said simply. She sounds so sure of herself that Harry is thrown. Then his mind kicks into overdrive and suspicion curls in him.

“I—” he stammers, “—do _you?_ ” 

Harry’s spent so long trying to keep the letters a secret that he forgot it wasn’t only his secret to tell. Could Louis have told her about them? Has she known the entire time about her brother’s deception? 

But she shakes her head. “No.” 

He gapes at her. “Then why would you say that.” 

“Because I know my brother,” she says, and her voice gets an edge again. Not quite a hardness, but the suggestion of it. “He’s not a cruel man, no matter what you think.” 

Harry stares at her for a long time. She doesn’t leave any room for him to argue. He isn’t interested in seeing her grow angry with him, and her look suggests she might if he persists. So he shakes himself a little. 

“We should talk about something else.” 

She sighs. “If you like.” And then, as easy as anything, she changes the subject. “You should know that I will miss you when you’re gone.” 

Harry still feels a little wary of her, but he’s too relieved by her willingness to move away from her brother that he doesn’t dare question it. “I’ll miss you too.” 

“Maybe you could write to me every now and again?” she says. “I promise I’ll be the one replying this time.” 

Harry cringes, but it’s proof of nothing. She knows that much from him when they first spoke in the gardens of Foley House. He does his best to swallow down his panic. Regardless of his history writing to ‘her’, he doesn’t like the idea of never hearing from her again. 

“I can do that,” he says. 

She smiles. “Good. Are you excited for your sister to arrive?” 

Gemma is two weeks away now. They’ve sent a few messages ahead of them, with lists of things they might need and asking after anything that Johannah might like them to bring with them. There will be another banquet when they arrive to formally welcome them. Harry can only hope it goes better than the last. 

“I can’t wait,” he tells Charlotte now. “I almost want to make the days end faster, just so she can be here a little sooner.” 

“I look forward to meeting her.” 

It will go well, Harry thinks. They’re too similar for them not to get along. “She’ll like you. I already know.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Charlotte says. “Do you want to go on a ride with Thomas and me tomorrow?” 

Harry shoots her a meaningful look. “Wouldn’t I be getting in the way?” 

She elbows him again. “Never.” 

That gets him a laugh. It does sound nice to go for a ride tomorrow if the weather will permit him. He’d like to see more of Ryde while he has the chance. “Then yes, that would be lovely.” 

Charlotte smiles up at him. “Lovely. Well, I’ll see you then. Meet us at the stables after breakfast?” 

When Harry nods, she gathers her skirts up again, clearly finished with standing out in the rain like this. She’s done a remarkable job at keeping mostly dry, but she’s not a miracle worker, and Harry’s sure she’s cold even from the small spattering of rain that’s managed to land on them. He smiles, ready to bid her goodbye when she hesitates. 

She used one hand to reach out and touch his arm gently. “Whatever you decide about Louis, do it while you’re here.” She must feel Harry stiffen under her grip, but she doesn’t back down. “It will do neither of you any good to leave your questions unanswered, especially if this is the last chance that you have to ask.” 

She squeezes his arm once before turning around and walking away. Then she’s gone, and Harry is left with only the rain and his thoughts for company. 

♚

Gemma’s ship lands at the same spot Harry’s had, all those months ago. She makes the same journey he did — a night at Kingscliff Abbey and then past Foley House — on her way to Haverhill. As soon as they get word her party is near, Harry and Niall race down to the castle gates. He isn’t going to waste an extra second he might have to see her, to finally be sure that she’s alright. 

Her head pokes out of the carriage window when they are only a few hundred metres away. She’s too far for him to see her face properly, but her smile is obvious even from this distance. As soon as they have stopped, she is out, her feet landing on the floor before the footman has even reached the door. 

It’s incredibly informal of her, the way she leaps and Harry and pulls him into the warmest of hugs. Harry doesn’t care at all about that. He just hugs her back, feeling all his stress leak out him as he does so. 

He buries his face in her hair. “I’ve missed you so much.” 

“I’ve missed you too.” She squeezes him impossibly tight. 

After another moment, he pulls away. Behind her, an unfamiliar man is climbing out of the carriage, watching them fondly. Harry assesses him for a moment, before refocusing on Gemma. 

He pulls back just enough to look at her. Her hair is longer and she’s wearing a distinctly Sicean style of dress, but aside from that, she is unchanged. 

“You’re well?” he asks her. 

She nods. She hasn’t quite let go of him, still holding onto his arms. “I am.” 

It’s almost laughable how light he feels, just to have her here. He wants to grin, to let his joy escape him for all the world to see. He shouldn’t though — he has to maintain some sense of decorum, after all. 

He looks at the stranger behind her. He’s hanging back, giving them a moment to themselves. As far as first impressions go, it’s a good one. 

“You have a husband now,” Harry says to Gemma. 

She grins, all dimples. “I do.” 

“Is he a good man?” Going by her smile, Harry doesn’t even have to ask, but he does anyway. He wants to hear it from her. 

She turns a little soft, pink staining her cheeks. “You know,” she says, leaning close like it’s one of their old childhood secrets, “I think he might be one of the best.” 

Harry can’t keep the surprise from his face. She’s happy, Harry realises. It’s more than he could have ever hoped for. 

“Really?” 

She snorts, relaxed, like she expected nothing else. “Why don’t you meet him for yourself?” Then she’s stepping back, opening her arms to her husband and waving him forward. “Michal, this is my brother, Harry.” 

Michal ducks his head as he steps closer to them. “Prince Harry,” he says. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

When Harry searches his face, he finds it to be open and honest, and another tightness in his chest loosens. He doesn’t have to lie when he says, “I feel the same way. Please, call me Harry.” 

“Then you must call me Michal.” 

“I will,” Harry promises and means it. 

Gemma watches the exchange carefully. She cares about this conversation, Harry realises a little late. It matters to her what Harry thinks of Michal, and maybe what Michal thinks of Harry too. Whatever she’s looking for she finds in a quick moment and it makes her smile brightly. Reassured, she turns her focus to Niall. 

“It’s been too long,” she tells him, pulling him into a hug of his own. 

It surprises Niall, so much that Harry has to stifle a laugh at the shock on his friend’s face, but he sinks into it after a moment. He and Gemma have known each other for years, even if they weren’t always best friends. Her presence must be just as comforting to him as it is to Harry. When they break apart, Harry can see the tension easing on Niall’s face. 

“It has,” he tells her. “Good to see you here and well.” 

Gemma looks around the castle, giving herself a moment to take it all in. She stands close to Michal, close enough for a warm sense of optimism to bloom in Harry’s chest. It’s like she hasn’t even noticed she’s doing it, which feels more reassuring than anything else. This isn’t a performance. She likes him. 

“So this is Ryde, then,” she says. “It’s beautiful.” 

Michal nods along with her, following her lead and looking up to the high towers of the castle. Gemma seems to gravitate more to the city that surrounds them, the sea of thatched houses spread unevenly as far as they can see. 

Harry tries to look at it again with fresh eyes. “It is.” He can’t help that he doesn’t sound quite as awed by it. He’s been here longer, had the time to feel the sting of disappointment. 

But Gemma has never been one to let him get away with anything. She frowns at him. “You don’t seem as enamoured by it as I am.” 

With Michal and Niall listening so closely, Harry’s flushes. “No,” he backtracks quickly. “I wouldn’t use those words.” 

Gemma narrows her eyes at him and Harry feels his skin heat under the scrutiny. “What words would you use then?” 

Harry clears his throat, awkward. “There’s more to Ryde than meets the eye, is all.” 

There, that seems a diplomatic answer. 

“As there is with any country,” Gemma says. 

Harry smiles tightly. “I suppose.” He isn’t having this fight in this company, not when he’s known her new husband for all of two minutes. It’s lovely to see that Gemma likes the man, but Harry’s learnt by now not to trust things at face value. 

Mercifully, Gemma drops it. 

“You know,” she says, glancing around once more. “I’d had it in my mind that Queen Johannah would greet us.” 

“She will,” Harry says. “We’ll take you there now. She thought she’d give us the opportunity to say hello ourselves first.” 

They both look impressed at that like they can’t imagine a ruler ever making a similar offer. It makes sense. Harry had been surprised when Johannah had suggested it, even a little suspicious why Johannah would be so happy to welcome Gemma informally. She’d smiled at the look on his face though, and said, ‘ _I’d like to leave you with at least some fond memories of Ryde, Harry.’_

He’d looked at the ground hearing that. He hadn’t been hiding his dislike for the place, but he didn’t think that knowledge would make it all the way to the Queen. 

“How kind of her,” Gemma says. 

Harry hums, noncommittally. 

Again, Gemma doesn’t shy away from embarrassing him. “You don’t think highly of the Queen?” 

Michal startles and quickly turns uncomfortable. He shifts a little, not quite knowing where to look. 

Harry only rolls his eyes. “Stop doing that,” he tells her. It’s the only way to deal with her when she wants to make things public that he thinks are better left private. “Of course, I do.”

“Then why did you make that face?” 

Sighing, Harry steps forward and loops his arm around her elbow. No one seems to mind when he drags her a couple of feet away from everyone else. They look relieved more than anything. 

“It’s hard to forgive someone that’s locked you up,” he hisses. 

She suddenly frowns. “She locked you up?” 

And then Harry has to admit that, well, no not literally. But by forbidding him to leave Ryde, she had done essentially that. 

Gemma looks quite tired when he’s done. “Harry,” she says meaningfully. 

He shushes her. “I wasn’t allowed to leave. That’s as good as being locked up!” 

She sighs. “You always were so dramatic.” 

He swats at her arm. She smacks him right back, and when he glances back at Niall and Michal, they’re both trying and failing to hide their amusement. 

“She did the right thing,” Gemma says. “You understand that, right? She’s explained to you why they couldn’t send you back to us?” 

Christ, they’ve explained it _a thousand times._

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Harry says, in lieu of telling her yes. It carries the same message anyway. “You were in danger, so was our mother, and I couldn’t do anything.” 

She deflates a little at that. “That would have been difficult for you.” 

Harry nods, finally sensing that he’s got some sort of upper ground. “It was! But that’s not the point. I don’t dislike her. She’s a good woman and an exceptional Queen. She’s just not the first on my list of favourite people either.” 

Gemma accepts that, if a little begrudgingly. “Alright then,” she says. “I suppose I can be satisfied with that. When do we go to meet her?” 

“Now, if you’re ready.” 

She links her arm with his as they make the journey up to the main hall. It’s much slower with her party behind them, but it gives them a chance to speak a little more. Niall and Michal trail them, already chatting like old friends. 

“Is it just the Queen we’re due to meet?” Gemma asks. 

Harry shakes his head. “Her family will be there too.” Charlotte and the twins were wearing new dresses for the occasion and had been thrilled to tell everyone about them. Harry wasn’t sure, but could only assume that Louis would be there too. “Be on your guard with them?” 

Gemma hesitates. “Her children?” 

“Just her son, really.” 

Harry doesn’t like the idea of Louis playing his little tricks on Gemma. If there was anything he could learn from his awful experience it was at least to warn Gemma to be careful. That thought carries with it another nasty revelation. He’ll have to tell Gemma that Charlotte wasn’t the one writing to him at some point. Christ, what an awful conversation that will be. 

It’s only when Gemma speaks again that Harry realises she’s been quiet for a little longer than he would have expected. “Really?” She asks slowly. “I’ve only heard good things about Prince Louis?” 

Harry just stifles his laugh. He can’t help the smirk that fights through though. “Then you haven’t been speaking to very honest people.” 

Again, Gemma takes a measured pause before replying. It must be confusion that’s making her hesitate, and Harry feels even gladder he’s let her know early. “Why is that?” 

“We’re here.” They stop just outside the grand hall and Harry turns to her. It wouldn’t be smart for him to continue here, especially with no idea who might be listening. He gives her his most reassuring smile. “I’ll tell you more later. Please, just be careful.” 

She searches his face, then slowly nods. “I will.” 

He can’t help but hug her again, closing his eyes and remembering that this is real. _She’s here._ “Good. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

She returns the embrace warmly. “Me too.” 

♚

Introducing her is the easiest part of all of this. Harry is used to the watchful eyes of Johannah’s court now, and he’s familiar with the layout of the hall itself. When he’d walked in, been introduced himself, he’d felt like he might shrivel under everyone’s eyes. Then, of course, all of his nerves had been wiped away by blind anger when he’d recognised Louis as the spy from his rooms at the Abbey. He’s not sure if Gemma is feeling the same things now, or if she feels stronger than he did. She’s always been the bravest of them both. 

“She looks well, doesn’t she?” Niall asks, a whisper, as Johannah and Gemma exchange formal pleasantries. 

Harry nods. “Very.” 

Niall nods towards Michal. “And he seems alright. I mean, I know we only just met him but—” 

Harry doesn’t need Niall to explain. He gets it. “I agree.” 

Michal steps up to speak to Johannah after a moment. The first thing he does is apologise, and Harry watches as the court is swept away by their surprise. It isn’t often you find a ruler who is willing to admit they were in the wrong, and for Michal to do so without any prompt is admirable. Harry and Niall watch the rest of the introduction in silence. It isn’t long before the formalities are done with and Queen Johannah is inviting them all to take their seats with her for the meal. 

Niall takes his seat at the table to the right, while Harry makes his way up to the higher table at the back of the room. Gemma and Michal have been seated to Johannah’s left, their seats pointedly as big and important as hers. It’s all very diplomatic, but Harry doesn’t mind the gesture. He’s glad that Johannah wants them to feel her equals here. 

Harry sits to their left again, at the opposite end to Charlotte, Louis and the twins. It feels a bit odd to be so far away from Charlotte suddenly — he’s found her to be a close ally at meals like this, and suddenly the line between them seems stark and clear. 

Harry’s leaving Ryde. He’s really leaving. 

He ponders that as their food is served. It’s an assortment of different meats, all recently caught by a very proud hunting party that are sitting close to where Niall is. It’s nice, a lot of food that they don’t have in Andras. As Harry begins to eat, he realises he’ll miss it a little bit. 

An odd feeling thumps in his chest. In an effort to ignore it, he turns to Gemma again. She’s sat directly next to him, with Michal between her and Johannah. They’re both having a nice conversation, from the looks of things, but Gemma isn’t really involved. She seems to be waiting for Harry. 

“How are you?” she asks, leaning over so that she can speak quietly. “I haven’t had the chance to ask.” 

Harry hums around a mouthful of food. Once he’s swallowed, he says, “I’m well.” 

Gemma looks at him thoughtfully. Their conversation from earlier, which Harry had hoped was very much set aside, doesn’t seem to be done with at all. And Gemma is direct, like she has always been. “So you don’t like it here very much.” 

Harry sighs, stabbing errantly at another piece of food. “That’s not the case,” he says. “I was actually just thinking about all the things I do like.” 

That’s not a lie, but Gemma’s eyes narrow like she thinks it might be. He watches as she controls herself, holding back her suspicions and forcing herself to be a little softer. He’s lucky he can read her so well, because he knows it isn’t an accusation when she says, “Tell me about them.” 

Harry starts with Charlotte and Thomas. Not their relationship to one another, although Harry suspects Gemma will notice that for herself in no time. He tells her about how easy he has found it to confide in Charlotte, and how comfortable he is when he rides out with Thomas and Niall. The tennis matches is another thing that has proved to entertain him - they don’t play nearly as much as Andras and the people do in Ryde and Harry’s enjoyed watching the sport. 

Gemma is happy to listen to it all, her face relaxing with each new thing Harry shares. That said, she doesn’t completely lose the sceptical look on her face. 

“I’m glad you’ve made friends here,” she says, once Harry’s finished telling her about the rides he’s taken to the cliffs. 

Harry nods. “Me too. I’ll miss them when we’re home.” 

It doesn’t feel quite real, remembering he’ll be in Andras in a few months. He’ll be accompanying Gemma and Michal on their trips to Erinea next, then to Redrun, but they don’t intend to stay long in either place. They’ll be home before they know it. 

Gemma smiles. “That’s good?” 

“It is?” 

She shoots him a look that he’s all too familiar with; the same look she’d used to give him when he was a child and said something particularly foolish. “Yes. It’s good to have people that you can trust, even if they’re not right beside you. It might be better even.” 

He thinks she means that in the sense of being allies and the thought makes his nose wrinkle. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think I could have done anything here without Niall at my side.” 

There were so many times when everything felt hopeless. She doesn’t seem to quite understand that. How useless Harry felt, how caught up he was in people making decisions around him. Even when they’d tried to do something, to fight back, the decision was stripped from them. 

“Ah, you’re right there,” Gemma says. She doesn’t seem to have noticed the new tension that Harry carries. “Everyone has to have a Niall.” 

She says it with a smile, and Harry knows she just doesn’t _get it._

“He’s—” How can he explain it so that she really understands? “There have been times these past few months that I don’t think I would have survived without him.” 

It sounds absurdly dramatic, put like that, but it’s still the truth. The weight of it settles on his sister and she begins to frown. “It’s been that awful?” 

“Yes.” Harry feels like shouting it but keeps himself together enough to get it out as a harsh whisper. Then he flushes. “I mean, not the whole time. But yes, definitely, at points.” 

Now, finally, she looks at him like she understands the gravity of his words. “I’m sorry,” she says, and Harry could cry from relief. 

He sags a little in his seat. “It’s not your fault.” 

Gemma waits a moment, thinking, watching him carefully. Then she says, “I — you know it’s not Queen Johannah’s fault either though, right?” 

Harry fights a very real urge to pull his hair out. All that frustration — the same things he’d felt being trapped in this castle, in this country — shrinks down until suddenly he feels it all for his own body. It’s like he’s trapped there, desperate to get out, to make himself clear. 

He can’t yell and he can’t storm away. They’re sitting in front of the entire Ryde court, for Christ’s sake. All he can do is shoot her a tight smile, and hope she can read the anger in his eyes. 

“Yes,” he says. “You’ve already said.” 

She doesn’t back down. She never does, and they've got to full-blown arguments like this before. Harry really hopes it doesn’t come to that today. 

“I mean it, Harry,” Gemma says sternly. “I don’t want you to come away from this resenting the wrong people.” 

It’s so similar to the way his mother might scold him that he can’t help the indignance that rises within him. “Like you husband?” he hisses. 

She looks at him tiredly. “Yes, Michal for one. I don’t want you to hold him responsible for his father’s sins. But I also—” she pauses, reevaluates her words, then changes course a little. “Please don’t blame Queen Johannah or her family for the things that they had to do.” 

Harry is so, so sick of hearing it. 

“They were supposed to be our allies, Gemma.” 

“I know that.” She sounds like she’s trying to be patient with him, which only infuriates him further. 

“They abandoned us, in our moment of need.” He leans close, well aware that this conversation probably isn’t appropriate considering the people in question are sitting just a few seats away. He doesn’t stop though. “They disregarded our marriage agreement, they kept me in this castle. I understand why they did those things, I do. But I won’t pretend they are heroes in this. They’re not.” 

Of course, that isn’t the end of it. 

“There’s more to it than that,” Gemma says. 

And isn’t that just endlessly frustrating? “Really? Why don’t you enlighten me?” 

For the first time, Gemma falters. She glances down at the table in front of them. Both of them have forgotten their meals, but no one seems to mind. Everyone is celebrating, paying them no more attention than an errant glance every few moments. “I—” she begins. “Things were going on, things that you don’t know about.”

It’s the flimsiest of excuses, and Harry can’t stand to hear it. If she wants to keep her secrets, that’s fine. He won’t force them from her. But he also won’t pretend that being kept in the dark has done him any good. He leans in closer. “There was a point, before you were married, before we had any hope of peace, when I was so desperate that I planned to break free of this country.” 

Gemma rears back a little, surprised. “You what?” 

“That’s how desperate I was,” Harry says. “It felt like my only option, to somehow travel back to Andras on my own.” 

She looks so dismayed by that. “That never would have worked.” 

“You don’t know that. It was something, at least. The possibility of success. Which is more than I could gain by staying here.” 

His cheeks burn a little as he speaks. For all his grand words, his plan had ultimately failed. He’d been as impotent with a plan as he’d been without. 

“I’m sorry,” Gemma says again. 

“You don’t need to apologise,” Harry says. He’s not looking for anything like that. “I’m just — I’m so sick of people telling me that I’m overreacting to all this. Or that I’m somehow not clever enough to grasp the bigger picture. I understand that the Queen had to protect her people, but I had you to think about. And mother, and _our people_. That doesn’t go away just because Queen Johannah was doing her duty.” 

“I’m not saying that it does,” Gemma whispers. “I’m only saying — we have to forgive choices that are made in times like that. You can’t always account for other people when you make decisions like Queen Johannah did.” 

Harry huffs. They’re getting nowhere. “I know that too.” 

Gemma does at least look apologetic. “I’m glad,” she says. “How were you even planning on leaving?” 

Sighing, Harry looks down at his hands. “It doesn’t matter. Niall mentioned your man in the city, the one you told him about when we left Andras, but we couldn’t find him anyway.” He flushes again, chagrined at admitting how quickly they’d failed. 

“Zayn?” Gemma asks quietly. 

Harry nods. 

She looks a little lost for a moment. Harry wishes he could know what she was thinking. Maybe that would help him know the right words to say. Of course, that will never happen, so he has to try again blind. 

“For me, it’s — I understand why I was kept here, and why they broke the engagement. But I have no intention on thanking them for it. And I won’t be trusting them any time soon.” 

Even Charlotte, Harry thinks. When someone has their own country to think about, you can’t count on them to be entirely on your side. He thinks of her as a friend, he does, but nothing more than that. 

It makes Gemma look so sad. “Harry, they’re our allies.” 

She isn’t going to agree with him on this. There’s no point in making the same argument over and over again if she won’t even listen. So he sighs. “You’re welcome to think of them that way. I won’t.” 

She breathes sharply through her nose. All the contempt Harry has for her approach her, she seems to feel for him in reverse. “Harry.” 

He can’t hear it. “No, Gemma. I trusted them before and look where it’s gotten us. You had to get married, you had to — to _sell_ yourself to save our people.” 

That. 

That probably wasn’t the right way to phrase it. 

Gemma turns impossibly hard, thunder in her eyes. “Stop,” she orders — and it is an order, the same voice she uses when she’s speaking to unruly citizens. “You stop it right now. I understand that you’re upset but you do _not_ get to speak to me like that.”

He flushes, his skin hot. He shouldn’t have said it that way, but that doesn’t mean that he’s wrong. 

“I’m sorry, but it’s true,” he hisses. “If they hadn’t pulled away from our alliance, you wouldn’t have had to accept this marriage. If it weren’t for Ryde—”

“If it weren’t for Ryde we would still be at war.” 

Harry has to stop for a moment, just to make sure he heard her correctly. He’s so confused that his face goes blank. Then he frowns. “What?” 

Gemma’s face has turned a little red now too. He might have thought it was all anger if it weren’t for the slightly flustered look on her face. “You don’t know the full story,” she says. Harry’s surprised to find her voice has gone much softer, quieter. When she looks back up at him, her eyes are imploring. “Ryde saved us.” 

Harry blinks at her. He can’t — what is she talking about? 

“ _How?”_

Her hand lands heavy on his wrist, her fingers tight. It’s not a question when she tugs on his arm and stands. It gets them the attention of almost the entire room. She does a masterful job at looking cool, collected when she smiles at the Queen. “Your Majesty,” she says. “Please excuse me. I need a word alone with my brother.” 

Johannah nods easily. “Of course,” she says, “please, take as much time as you like.” 

Gemma smiles with such geniality at the Queen that Harry can hardly believe she’s the same person with his wrist in a death grip. She marches him firmly out of the hall, giving Harry enough time to catch Niall’s half-bewildered, half-amused stare before he’s tugged outside. 

She doesn’t lead him very far. With the confidence of a woman who’s lived in this castle for years, she navigates the halls until she finds a small enclave. She yanks on his wrist until he steps into the shadows with her. 

Before Harry can ask what the hell is going on, Gemma says, “I promised Louis that I couldn’t tell you this.” Harry gapes at her. _Louis?_ “But I won’t have you sit there and speak about him and his family as though they’re our enemies.” 

“Louis?” he echoes. “What does he have to do with—?”

“Louis is the reason that Michal and I met. He sailed to Andras — without his mother’s permission, I might add — and he organised the meeting. If it weren’t for him, we never would have found peace with Sicea.” 

Fury takes hold of Harry very, very quickly. “You.” He swallows, trying to make sure he has this clear. “Louis is the reason you’re married.”

Does she think this improves things for Harry? Does she think he’ll fall gratefully at Louis’ feet, overjoyed that his sister is bound to a stranger? 

Gemma seems to know what he’s thinking. “Don’t you dare,” she says, deadly serious. “Don’t pretend that this marriage is something that I’m trapped in, or that I was forced into it. You know me better than that.” 

That’s —

That’s true, at least. 

He does know her. And he knows better than anyone that she isn’t one to give in or back down. She would never have married Michal without deciding it was the best thing to do. What grinds at Harry is that she had to come to that decision at all. 

She doesn’t seem to know that though. His shoulders deflate a little. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Good,” she says fiercely. “Yes, Louis is the reason I’m married. There was no other option. King Edoard was determined to attack at all costs. The wedding was the only way to prevent him from doing so, and we never would have known that if Louis hadn’t organised the entire thing.”

Her words settle on Harry now. 

That’s where Louis has been? In _Andras?_

“He’s a good man,” Gemma presses on firmly. “I don’t care what your experience with him is. You may keep that to yourself if you like, but I won’t hear a word against him. Do you understand?”

Harry’s too busy thinking to reply. Louis had vanished from the castle the day after he’d proposed to Harry. Harry had been hyper-aware of him, on the lookout and desperately hoping to avoid further awkwardness between them. He’d been grateful when he’d realised Louis was avoiding him too. 

Only he wasn’t. He was in Andras. 

Even after Harry turned him down, Louis still went to help negotiate with Sicea and Andras. 

Gemma pushes at his arm, snatching his attention back. “Do you understand?” She repeats, voice deadly. 

He’s so shocked that he feels a little numb. Gemma has no reason to lie about this. None at all. He manages a nod though. “I do.” 

Immediately, the fight drains out of her. Her frown softens, vanishes altogether, and the hand she’d used to push at his shoulder turns gentle. She rubs his arm a little, reassuring. “I’m sorry,” she says, seemingly realising how confused he is. 

He shakes his head, still a little dazed. “It’s fine.” 

“I didn’t mean to shock you.” 

He shrugs her hand away. “It’s fine, Gemma.” 

“I’m going back inside. Are you coming with me?” 

Harry shakes his head. He needs to think. He needs to — to understand. “Um, no,” he says. “I’ll be in in a moment.” 

She watches him for a final moment, then nods. She doesn’t bother trying to convince him any further, apparently sensing the crisis warring within him. Then he’s by himself again, tucked into an alcove that he didn’t know existed, with everything that he was just so sure of shifting on its axis. 

He was so sure he knew who Louis was, what kind of man he was. It’s jarring to realise he was so wrong, that he could get it so wrong. 

But then — this is the same man who’d taken so much pleasure in tricking Harry for years. Who’d written to him under a false name, taunting him, for no clear reason that Harry could see? 

How could that man be the man who’d helped save Harry’s country? 

He doesn’t know how long he stays out in the corridor. Long enough that he hears music begin to play in the hall, the sounds of people standing to dance, their meals done with. It stirs him, enough to remember that there are appearances to uphold. He should get back. 

When he walks back into the hall, he sees he was right, and that most of the court has moved to the middle of the room to dance. Niall is in the middle of it, laughing as he dances with Michal and Gemma who both look just as happy. 

Harry lingers by the door, not quite ready to join the revelry. He watches, still so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice someone approaching him. 

“Are you alright?” Louis asks. When Harry turns to look at him, he sees a careful stance. Louis’ voice is quiet, and though it’s not the first time Louis has spoken to him gently, it is the first time that Harry has truly seen it for what it is. Caution. Louis is cautious with him. 

When Harry doesn’t reply, Louis ducks his head. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.” 

Harry clears his throat. “No, it’s fine.” He’s struck by a sudden yearning to figure this man out. Who is Louis, really? “I’m fine.” 

Slowly, Louis nods. “Okay, good.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to ask, or even what questions he has in his head. Where does he even start? 

He’s quiet for so long that he expects Louis to leave him, but he doesn’t. He waits a while, then says, “I just. I wanted to speak with you if you have a moment.” 

Trepidation beats at Harry. He has no idea how to feel. “Okay.” 

Louis seems a little startled by his easy acceptance. He shifts his weight a little, rocking from foot to foot, then nodding, as if he’s convincing himself to go on. “Okay,” he copies Harry. “As you’ll soon be leaving with Princess Gemma, I thought there were a few things that you should know before you go.” He stares down at his feet, pausing, then looking back up. “Um, sorry. Not a few things. One thing. Just one.”

Harry waits. 

Louis takes a deep breath. “You said in the garden—”

They _cannot_ talk about this here. 

“Are you—?” Harry interrupts before he can think any better of it. “Do you want to talk about that here?” 

Louis blushes for the first time that Harry’s ever seen. “Oh,” he says. He glances around as if reminded they’re surrounded by every single important person in Ryde court. “Don’t worry. No one’s paying us any mind.” 

Harry merely nods at the crowd. “Our sisters are.” 

Gemma’s been glancing at them since Louis approached him. Harry’s not as sure how long Charlotte has been watching, but she is. She’s still seated, picking at some food on her plate, not at all shy about staring. 

“So they are,” Louis says. “Um. Never mind them. They can’t hear us. I — do _you_ mind my talking about it?” 

Harry’s not really sure. 

He’s not sure of anything, right now. 

With two options before him, he chooses the one that might give him answers. “No.” 

“Okay,” Louis says. He has to steel himself again, apparently needing to work up the courage to say whatever it is he wants to say. “That night, you mentioned the letters—” 

Harry freezes. “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this, actually.” 

“Just—” Louis’ voice gets a little louder, before settling again. There’s a desperate edge to him like he can’t quite stand still. “Just let me finish. You’ll be free of me soon enough. Surely you can hear me out.” 

Harry watches him warily for a beat. He takes a deep breath before nodding his head jerkily. “Fine.” 

Louis looks down at his shoes again. “I wanted to say, about the letters. I didn’t learn anything from them.” Harry frowns, confused, but Louis doesn’t leave any room for questions. He pushes on, his words becoming quick, fast, rushing to escape him. “I mean I did. I learnt that you were passionate, and strong, and brave. When you wrote to me, you were everything that I — that I wanted to be. You were caring, and you were vulnerable with me, and you told me about the things that you love. It made me — it made me want to be more.” 

He lifts his head. 

Harry can’t breathe. 

“Your letters inspired me, Harry. I’m sorry that I let you think that they were some, some trick to watch you on Charlotte’s behalf. They weren’t. I just like reading your thoughts, and I liked sharing mine with you.”

He steps a little closer. This entire time, he’s kept his voice low, sure. Now Harry can see plain determination shining in his eyes. They’re so blue. 

“I understand that the damage has been done between you and me,” Louis says. “But I wanted to make that clear before you go. You shouldn’t be embarrassed by the letters, Harry. You should be proud. Very proud.” 

Harry can’t — he can’t do anything. He can’t speak, he can’t move. 

He can barely think. 

Louis smiles tightly. “Anyway.” He steps back, out of Harry’s space, his face turning back to something formal, diplomatic. “That’s all I wanted to say. Good luck on your journey home.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response. He bows lightly, his hands behind his back, and then he leaves. 

And Harry —

Harry’s never been so confused in his entire life. 

He abandons the banquet. There’s nothing in him that wants to stay, to play pretend with everyone when he has so much to think about. He walks back to his rooms slowly, so caught up in his thoughts that by the time he arrives there he can’t remember any of the walk itself. 

He’s got so many questions. So many questions. 

And there’s only one place he can think of to look for the answers. 

He moves straight to the large wooden cupboard where his clothes are stored, opens the doors and looks down to the bottom left corner. There, underneath some of his shoes and a book he’s taken from the library, is his small chest. 

The letters. 

_Louis’_ letters. 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


	8. Chapter 8

♚

Gemma and Michal’s time in Ryde passes very quickly. It’s a pity because Louis had hoped to find a way to enjoy their company during their visit, but he can never quite pull his mind away from Harry’s imminent departure. 

At least he can content himself with having told the truth. Whether or not Harry believed him was another matter entirely, but Louis had no say in that. It was his responsibility, to be honest, to stop hiding behind easy lies. What Harry did with the truth was up to him. 

It did lift a little weight from Louis’ shoulders. There was hope now that Harry wouldn’t view him entirely as a villain in their story. At least where the letters were concerned. 

He spends his afternoons where Gemma and Michal are. Unfortunately, on a tour as significant as theirs, there isn’t a huge amount of downtime. He hangs back mostly, trying to make sure he doesn’t intrude too much. It’s clear to see how happy Harry is to be in his sister’s company. He’s more relaxed than Louis has ever seen him, laughing and joking with them, slowly becoming more and more at ease with Michal’s presence. 

Lottie and Thomas seem to sense the same thing that Lous does, and unconsciously linger a little way away. They stand with Louis in the shade of a nearby tree, content with observing. Perhaps they’re afraid to intrude too. 

“He seems much happier with her here,” Lottie says, watching as Harry and Gemma laugh at some joke that Michal has just told them. 

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just hums an affirmative. 

“It will be a pity to see him go, though,” Lottie goes on. 

“It will,” Louis agrees. 

He keeps his gaze trained forward, and doesn’t need to turn his head to know that Lottie is watching him shrewdly. She has their mother’s talent for reading his face and he doesn’t want to give her any advantages. 

He should have known that wouldn’t stop her. 

“Have you talked to him at all?” 

Louis feels his cheeks heat. Thomas is standing on her other side, and Louis has no interest in having this conversation with an audience. He does turn to Lottie now, to shoot her a warning look. “What would he and I have to talk about?” 

Lottie scowls at him, clearly admonishing him in her head if she can’t do it out loud. It’s Thomas who surprised them both, though. 

“Perhaps you could discuss the absurd tension that seems to take hold of you both when you’re in a room together,” he suggests, casual as anything. “Or why he keeps looking over at you like that?” 

Louis knows he blushes brightly at that. He can feel it. Of course, it isn’t helped when he impulsively says, “He’s looking over at me?” 

Lottie scoffs. 

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed, Louis,” Thomas says. “You’re not that obtuse.” 

Louis stares at him. He hasn’t seen anything of the like from Harry. Harry has seemed more anxious than ever to avoid him over the past few days. Since Louis had told the truth at the banquet. 

Thomas narrows his eyes at Louis. “Or,” he amends. “Maybe you are.” 

“Hush, Thomas.” Lottie elbows him harshly in the side and Louis gets a little bit of joy from the way that Thomas hisses. 

He doesn’t hush, though. Of course not. “Have you really not noticed?” 

Face burning, Louis shakes his head. “No, I—” He catches himself and shakes his head a little. What is he doing, talking about this with them? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

But Thomas points a finger at him, incredulous. “This!” He says, suddenly waving his arms all around. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re both so strange about one another, it’s bizarre.” 

This enthusiasm does draw a couple of stares now. This time, when Lottie hisses at him to be quiet, he does settle down a little. He nods his head towards their concerned onlookers, apologetic. 

“We’re not anything,” Louis says quietly. 

“Oh yes.” Thomas shoots him an exaggerated look. “Very convincing.” 

“For the love of God, Thomas,” Lottie scowls. “Stop it.” 

He lifts his hands in the air, surrendering. “Fine, fine. Clearly, there’s some secret here that I can’t be a part of. I understand.” 

His tone tells Louis that he doesn’t understand, but Louis doesn’t have it in him to fight. He looks forward again. “I did talk to him.” 

Lottie and Thomas both swing around to look at him. Their faces are twins in their confusion. 

“You did?” Lottie asks. 

“Yeah, I.” Louis swallows, still refusing to look at either one of them. “I told him the truth about some things.” 

Lottie’s voice goes a little softer, understanding. “That’s really good, Lou.” 

Oh god, he thinks. “Please don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” he says. It’s the same voice she might use on the girls when they’ve finished a nice embroidery or completed their studies on time. “I just thought it was best to end things on a good note.” 

It is an ending. Once Harry leaves, he’s likely to never speak to Louis again. That leaves a lot of pressure on these last few days. 

“It’s definitely the right thing,” Lottie says. 

“How did he take it?” Thomas asks. He’s sobered a little, clearly reading their moods and realising they’re quite serious. “I don’t know what it was, but clearly there was something he didn’t like about you.” 

That stings. 

Louis looks down at his shoes. “I’m not sure. I said my piece and then left.” 

From what he had seen on the night of the banquet, Harry had been stunned by Louis’ revelation. He’d gone incredibly still as Louis had made his speech, and he didn’t seem inclined to say anything, even if Louis had lingered to give him the chance. 

Lottie sighs. “That’s not really talking, is it?” 

“I said what needed to be said,” Louis tells her. “I don’t need anything more than that.” 

The truth is out in the open now. That’s the part of this that Louis needed to do. He needed to make sure Harry had the full and proper story, and he does now. 

“Maybe Harry might?” 

Louis shakes his head. “Harry needs to go home,” he says resolutely. 

“Speaking of!” Thomas ducks his head forward, this time at least bringing his voice down low. “I can’t believe you were in Andras, you rat!” 

Louis looks at Lottie, accusingly. “You told him?”

For the first time in this conversation, Lottie balks. “I,” she stutters, cheeks pink, “uh.” 

“I can’t believe you thought you’d keep it a secret,” Thomas says over her lack of an answer. “You bloody organised the entire thing!” 

Louis leans in to shush him angrily. He indicates to the courtiers that are peppered all around them, to Harry and Niall sitting just a few metres away. “They don’t know,” he hisses. 

Lottie shoots him a disappointed look. “Louis. You just said that you told him the truth.” 

“Yes, well.” Louis clears his throat and stands straight again. “Not about that.” 

There was no point at all in Harry knowing about Louis’ involvement with Gemma and Michal’s meeting. 

“So you’re still lying to him.” 

Louis shoots Lottie a glare. “He doesn’t need to know that I was there. It doesn’t change anything.” 

“It might do for him.” 

Louis shakes his head. “He’s leaving soon anyway.” 

“Oh yes, you’re right,” Lottie’s tone turns incredibly sarcastic. “That _does_ mean you should keep lying to him, just to be very sure that he thinks the worst of you forever.” 

Louis huffs. “You’re not helping.” 

“You’re not helping yourself, Louis,” she says, voice serious once more. 

He shrugs, feeling caught. “I simply don’t see the point. What would the outcome be? I go over to him and tell him that I was there — and hope for what, exactly? Either he blames me for making his sister marry, or he thinks I’ve come over to boast about my involvement.” 

Thomas watches Gemma warily. “I don’t think anyone could make that woman do anything.” 

“I know that,” Louis says. He knows that very well. “But she’s his sister. He’s protective, just like I am with you.” He looks to Lottie then, pointedly. 

She softens a little at that. “That doesn’t mean he gets to blame you for his sister’s choices.” 

“I’m the one who organised it!” 

“Yes!” Lottie meets his loud whisper with one of her own. “Which means that you’re the one who made this all possible, Louis.” 

She gestures over to Gemma and Michal once again. They’re still grinning happily, engrossed in their conversation with Harry and Niall. Gemma doesn’t look trapped, or even tense that she’s there. She looks entirely at ease, even leaning a little into Michal’s space. Louis has to admit that even he’d been surprised by the affection between them, how much it had grown since he saw them last. They were friends, that much was clear, but it was possible that they were also much more than that. 

Louis sighs deeply. “What would you like for me to do?” He asks Lottie quietly. “March over and tell him that? What would that do, aside from making it look like I’m demanding some credit for the whole thing?” 

Lottie rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic. I just want you to tell him the truth.” 

“I’ve told him everything that was important. I’ve done that. It’s all that I can do.” 

He’s right about this. It’s one of the only things he’s felt certain about in a long while. He’s said everything that needed to be said. Anything else is surplus, meaningless to Harry’s opinion of him. He didn’t want to use the war as a cheap way to gain favour with Harry. The only reason that he’d even ended up going to Sicea was that he’d failed at fixing it in so many other ways. 

So when Lottie sighs herself and says, “ _Louis,_ ” he shakes his head. 

“No, Lottie,” he says. “I’ve thought about this, I have. I’ve obsessed over it, almost. Everything that Harry needs to know about me, he does. If I’ve chosen to hold onto anything, that choice belongs with me. Please understand that.” 

Her shoulders drop and he knows that he’s won. 

“Fine,” she says. 

He lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.” 

“I’m not pleased about it.” 

“That’s fine,” Louis says. She doesn’t have to be. 

Thomas peers forward and around from Lottie’s other side. “You know I have no idea what you’re both talking about, right?” 

“That’s also fine.” 

Thomas huffs. “You’re always so happy to exclude me. I don’t understand it.” 

Louis knows him well enough to tell that he’s joking. It relaxes the air between them all, and Louis lets out a little laugh. Everything will go back to normal when Harry is gone. Yes, he won’t have the letters to look forward to anymore, but perhaps that’s for the best. 

“I just don’t want you to have any regrets,” Lottie says quietly. “Is that so awful of me?” 

Louis shakes his head. “It’s not. I understand.” 

“Do you think you will have any?” 

Regret is a funny thing. Louis has become so well acquainted with it these past few months that he’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be free of it. To not have guilt eat away at him for not being braver. 

But it’s not there. Not with this, at least. 

“I think that I’ve said everything that needs to be said,” he says, after a pause. “If I were to tell him about Andras, it would feel like just another attempt to manipulate him. I’m finished with that.” 

Finally, Lottie seems to relax. “Okay then,” she says. “I’m happy for you.” 

He leans over a little, bumping her shoulder with his own. At the very least, he’ll always have her on his side. “Thank you.” 

Thomas sighs loudly. “You’re going to tell me one day you know. I’ll get it out of you.” 

It’s another joke. This one, Louis doesn’t laugh so much at. He very much hopes that Thomas is wrong about that, though. Once Harry is on the ship, on his way back to Andras, the only thing that Louis wants to do is let him be. 

Leaving Harry in his past seems like the best way to move forward. 

For both of them. 

♚

The day before Harry is due to leave, Louis decides to stay in his rooms. He’s had the chance to speak with Gemma and Michal at length, and wish them well on their future endeavours. He’ll have another chance later tonight, at their final goodbye banquet. Until then, he’d like to be left at peace, accompanied by his thoughts and his thoughts alone. 

The person who thunders a knock at Louis’ door seems to have other ideas.

Louis almost jumps out of his skin when it starts. It’s so sudden and forceful that the wood shakes, and Louis pauses, waiting for a moment to decide if he’ll even open it. 

Then someone shouts his name through the door. 

“Louis! I need to speak with you!” 

Louis’ on his feet in seconds. _Harry?_ In the second before he moves, Louis cycles through every single thing he could have done to offend Harry now. He can’t think of anything — unless Harry is here to share his final opinions of Louis before he leaves. 

Louis swings the door open and Harry almost falls through it, his fists raised to keep on banging. He stumbles and Louis has to lift a hand to hold him steady as he regains his footing. Louis’ hand presses flat against the panes of Harry’s chest and he flushes. 

Harry looks a little red too, out of breath. “Hi,” he says. “You know I’ve never been to this part of the castle.” 

Louis blinks at him. He pulls his hand away. “Uh.” 

Harry keeps going. “I’ve been here for almost half a year now, and I’ve never come to this tower.” 

What is going on? 

“Okay,” Louis says slowly. 

Harry doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, looking around Louis’ rooms instead of looking at Harry instead. He walks over to the window and peers out. He’s still panting a little, but Louis doesn’t know why. His rooms have far fewer stairs to climb than Harry’s do, so there’s no reason for him to be so breathless. 

Unless he rushed here. The thought makes Louis’ pulse thunder. 

“It’s beautiful,” Harry says, still looking out. “You have the nicest view that I’ve seen yet.” 

Louis flushes a little at that. His rooms are only a few levels up from the lowest floor of the castle, overlooking the lower town where it presses up against the castle walls. It’s far more modest than the towering views that the rest of the castle offers of the countryside or the ocean. 

He clears his throat, awkward. “Thank you.” 

Harry turns back to look at him. “I thought you might want to look out on the ocean or something.” 

Carefully, Louis begins to approach him. Harry’s holding onto something, he notices a bit slowly. A small chest, made of a rich redwood and embossed with an intricate pattern that’s been painted gold. 

“No,” Louis says. “I — I prefer to see the city. I get to see — every week there’s a market in the square just down there.” He gets close enough to point it out to Harry. It’s bustling with people, all out and about and enjoying their daily tasks. “I like to see the people.” 

When he glances up at Harry, he sees a very peculiar look on his face. It’s a little calculating, a little cautious, but mostly intrigued. “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you.” 

Louis winces and steps back. He looks at the ground when he says, “No, well. I suppose you don’t know me very well.” 

He doesn’t want to do this here. His rooms have always been a quiet, safe space of his. Somewhere he could cherish his privacy, hide-away if he needed to. He doesn’t like the idea of Harry talking with him here. Louis doesn’t want to stain these rooms with bad memories. 

Even as Louis is moving away, Harry takes a step forward, following him. He’s still got that look on his face. “That’s the thing though,” he says, and he slowly lifts the chest in his hands. “I think I do.” 

With nimble fingers, he unclasps the small golden clasp at the front of the chest and flicks the lid open. Pieces of parchment bounce out as if chasing more space for themselves, free from the cramped confines of the box. It’s full to the brim, Louis realises. And he’d recognise that seal anywhere. 

It’s his. 

“I—” There’s no reason to ask, not when he already knows the answer, but panic makes him a bit stupid. “What are those?” 

Harry looks at him directly, never shying away from Louis’ gaze. It makes Louis realise how lucky he was that the garden was dark. He doesn’t think he could cope if Harry had looked at him like that and said no. 

“You wrote these,” Harry says. 

Louis swallows. “I did.” 

Harry looks down at the chest in his hands. He looks thoughtful, considering, and Louis is almost afraid to know what he’s thinking. “I counted them,” he says. “Do you know how many there are?” 

This surely leads nowhere good. His rooms suddenly feel far too small for them both. “I’m. I’m not—” 

“There's forty-nine of them,” Harry says. “Forty-nine.”

Louis feels his face flush, the heat crawling up his neck and behind his ears. Forty-nine is a large number, especially considering how long it takes for a letter to make it back and forth between their countries. Louis can remember sending two or three letters a month, each on different ships because he’d found a new book or a new poem that he wanted to share and he could hardly wait to write about it. 

It was fine when they were hundreds of miles apart, but with Harry here, in his rooms, it feels ridiculous. 

“That’s a lot,” Harry says as if Louis didn’t know that already. “You wrote to me a lot. And I’ve,” he looks down, searching for the words, then back up, “I’ve been pouring over them for days now. I’ve read each one a thousand times, and I still — I still don’t understand why you wrote them.” 

He takes another step closer to Louis, holding the chest out towards Louis. 

“I want to understand, Louis.” 

Louis wants to run, fairly quickly out of this room. He swallows, his pulse quick like a rabbit. “I told you.” 

But Harry shakes his head. “See, that’s — I heard what you said at the banquet. I just — I need more.” 

Louis thinks about the banquet, about how he’d exposed himself, raw, for Harry to see. He’d almost thrown up as soon as he’d walked away, completely terrified of what Harry might think of him now. The idea of doing that again… 

“I don’t know if I can give that to you,” he says quietly. 

He worries that Harry might get upset, or lash out at him. He would if it was him being denied answers. But Harry doesn’t do that. 

“I think you can,” he says instead. “I think maybe you already have.” 

He looks down at the chest again, then up and around the room. He finds what he’s looking for — a small table, Louis’ writing desk, pressed against the eastern wall — and moves there quickly. He sets the chest down and then begins to leaf through the letters themselves. 

Louis feels as though his stomach might drop away from his body. 

“Harry,” he says quickly, “what I said in those letters—” 

He has no idea what he’s going to say, but he has to say something. He has to soften this somehow. 

“Do you remember what you wrote?” Harry interrupts him. 

“I—” God, it’s so hot in here. Louis can’t look Harry in the eye. “Yes. Probably.” 

He doesn’t like admitting that. He’s already told Harry how much each of those letters means to him, does he really need to explain that further? 

“In each one?” 

Louis cringes. “I don’t know about that, but I—” 

Harry picks up one of the letters. He unfolds it and scans it, before holding it up for Louis to see. “You wrote this one to me in the summer, two years ago. I was talking about a poem that I’d found by Joseph Caradocs. Do you remember what you sent back?” 

Louis doesn’t even need to think. The poem was called _Summer Swallow_ and it had been an exciting discovery because they’d already been speaking about the use of birds in poetry and what that meant to them. Harry had been so happy to share it, and when Louis had received the letter he’d raced to the library to find out if they had a copy. 

Admitting that to Harry feels like the most frightening thing in the world. But then again, maybe the only thing more frightening was the idea of regretting not answering Harry’s questions one day. 

Louis has to look at his shoes to talk. “Um. I said that I liked the poem.” 

“What else?” 

Louis coughs. “I said that you reminded me of the swallow.” He’d said more than that actually. Harry had said, along with his recommendation of the poem, that he particularly liked it because swallows were his favourite bird. Louis hadn’t been surprised at all. It made so much sense to him.

 _I ought to have known you’d love them,_ he’d written. _They’re so impulsive and wild and free. They’re all the things that I see in you._

How can he say that to Harry now? 

He keeps his gaze down, so he’s startled when the letter appears in front of him. He looks up jerkily to find Harry much closer now, the letter in his hand, extended out to Louis. His hand is shaking, just a little, and Louis finds it’s strangely reassuring. So Harry isn’t so unaffected by all of this as he’d like to pretend. 

He takes the letter, glancing down at it and quickly recognising his own handwriting. The ink is a little faded but it’s certainly still legible. And there are the words, just as he remembers them. 

He jumps again when Harry moves quickly away, and back to the chest. “What about this one?” he asks, holding another letter up. He looks it over. “This is from last winter when my letter got lost on its way to you. What did you say?”

Again, it takes no effort at all to bring the memory back up. That winter had been painful on its own — a ship had crashed into one of the main docks and although no one was hurt, it had put a strain on their food imports and trapped six ships just offshore. When they’d finally got all the ships docked, and Harry’s letter hadn’t been with them, Louis couldn’t help but feel a little defeated. 

He remembers distinctly writing to Harry to tell him that he hadn’t received the letter he was expecting. He’d felt like a fool and worried for a little while that Harry just hadn’t sent it, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from writing anyway. 

“I said that I hadn’t heard from you,” Louis says. “And that I thought that was strange because you’d mentioned that I should expect one.” 

He glances up and sees Harry watching him, waiting. Louis already knows what for. 

He digs his fingernail into the inside of his thumb. “And I told you that I was worried about my people. I didn’t — I wasn’t able to help very much with the dock repair, and I felt—” 

“You felt useless.” Harry finishes for him. 

Louis huffs a little laugh only because he truly can’t think of anything else to do. This is absurd. 

“I remember that letter,” Harry goes on, “because I remember thinking that we were so similar. You were worried about the same things that worried me. I was so reassured by that.” 

How disappointed he must be now. 

Louis can’t think of anything to say to that. He could apologise — he probably should even though he’s done it before — but that doesn’t feel like enough. How can he justify letting Harry down like that? 

Harry holds up another letter. “This one.” 

Louis lifts a hand and runs it through his hair. Aside from reestablishing the ways in which Louis’ lie had hurt him, this exercise achieves nothing. “Harry, this isn’t useful.” 

“One more,” Harry insists. He leaves the chest again, coming back towards Louis, pushing into his space. He doesn’t give Louis this letter. Instead, he cradles it in front of him, holding it close to his heart. “This one, you wrote it last summer. Before I set sail.” 

Louis’ heart sinks. 

Of course, he remembers that one. It’s a letter he truly does not want to rehash now with Harry. 

“I don’t see the point of this,” he says. 

“What did you write, Louis,” Harry asks again. He is steadfast, determined, and again Louis fights to recognise what that look in his eye is. It looks — but surely, Louis’ interpreting it wrong because it can’t be — but Louis thinks it looks like

Hope? 

Louis does his best to swallow his fear. “I said that I couldn’t imagine life without your letters. That I didn’t remember what it was to live without them.” 

At the very least, this might prove to Harry that Louis’ telling the truth. If that’s all that this conversation gains them, then Louis’ alright with that. 

Harry doesn’t appear to feel the same. 

“Why did you write that?” 

He’s looked at the floor too many times, Louis realises, so this time he looks to the ceiling. “What is the purpose of this, Harry? We don’t need to—” 

Harry steps forward. It’s sudden, fast, and then he’s in Louis’ space. Just inches away. Louis lifts his chin a little, remembering that Harry’s just that bit taller than him. “We do.” He says it with such surety that Louis can hardly doubt him. “I need this, Louis. I need to know why you wrote that.” 

Louis stares at him. This close he can see the pink stain off Harry’s lips, a stark contrast with the pebbled stubble around his chin. He can count each of Harry’s eyelashes, see flecks of gold in his green eyes. 

He’s never looked at someone before and so badly wanted to give them the answers that they seek. If he could give Harry everything, he would. 

But this is. 

“Were you in love with me?” 

Louis shuts his eyes and breathes. “Harry,” he says softly, but once again Harry cuts him off. 

“Because I was.” And there he goes again, braver than anyone that Louis’ ever met. He just says it, and continues to speak, like he hasn’t just frozen the air in Louis’ lungs. “With you, I mean. With these letters. I loved you.” 

The air seems to freeze between then. Louis certainly can’t breathe. He can’t do anything, save for listening to the pounding of his pulse. Harry loved him?

But that wasn’t right. Not quite. 

Harry loved the author of those letters, back before he’d learnt everything else about Louis. He loved half a person, someone hiding behind words and his sister’s name. 

Louis has to look away. He finds when he does his gaze gets stuck on Harry’s shoulder, on the rich embroidered design that decorates his shirt. That leads to his collar, where the fabric hangs loose, showing just a peek of Harry’s collarbone. 

It feels wrong to stand so close to him. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. 

Harry’s breathing deeply and Louis tracks the rise and fall of his chest. It’s easier to look down, to focus there, instead of facing Harry directly. He’s not sure he’s ready to see whatever look is on Harry’s face now. 

Harry doesn’t seem satisfied with that, however. He lifts a hand and settles it lightly on Louis’ shoulder, rocking him gently. It’s not an angry move and as soon as Louis startles, looks up at him, Harry’s hand falls away. 

“Why are you sorry?” His voice is quiet, as soft as his touch had been. Harry has never touched him before. “You said it wasn’t a trick or a joke to you. You said that. So why are you sorry?”

There are so, so many things, Louis thinks, but they all boil down to Louis’ inability to be brave. And now Harry is telling him that he was in love with Louis? Or the author of the letters, at least. The letters Louis had thrown back into his face so maliciously, only a few months prior. 

“Because I lied.” Louis flinches a little when his voice breaks a little on the final word. There’s no way that Harry missed that. He has to look down again. “You loved someone who doesn’t exist.” 

Surely Harry has to know that, by now. It’s strange that he isn’t angrier. He’s been manipulated and lied to by Louis, and yet, he doesn’t back away. 

In fact, he seems to lean a little closer. “Who says that person doesn’t exist?” 

Louis aches to put some space between them. There’s no air here, in the small inches between them. He’s cornered, stuck between the reality of all of his lies and Harry, lovely Harry, the victim of them all. He has no idea what to say. “I,” he stutters, glancing around anxiously. “I’m not—” 

Even as Louis backs away, Harry follows him. He isn’t one to shy away from confrontation, Louis should have learned that by now. As he does, he lifts his other hand, the one still holding Louis’ letter. He reaches up and holds it in between them, slowly letting closed hand bump into Louis’ chest. The letter scratches at Louis’ skin through the fabric of his shirt. 

“You said you wrote these things because you wanted to,” Harry almost whispers. “With no ulterior motive. If you meant that, then I have to believe that these words are yours.” He presses the letter a little harder against Louis’ chest. He must be able to feel Louis’ heartbeat. “This person is you.” 

It’s funny. Moments ago, Louis couldn’t look at him. 

Now he can’t look away. 

When Harry had first arrived, this was all that Louis had ever wanted to hear. That Harry had reached through the letters and found the man who was writing them to be good. But Louis’ learnt since then, about Harry and about himself. All those desperate, flowery things that Louis had written weren’t for the real world. They couldn’t be. 

Louis wasn’t that man. He was the man who couldn’t help Harry when Harry needed, who lied and lashed out when confronted. 

“It might have been a part of me, but.” Louis stops. He doesn’t want to rush this or make more excuses. He just wants Harry to understand. “A man can’t put all of himself down on paper, Harry. It doesn’t work like that. I’m still a stranger to you.” 

Slowly, Harry pulls his hand away. He holds the letter loose in front of him, looking away from Louis and down at it instead. He looks disappointed, and Louis hates to see it, but he can’t lie again. Not about this. 

It’s better for Harry to know the truth now, than placing all his hopes in Louis being someone that he’s not. 

They stand in silence for a little while, long enough for the room to grow awkward. Louis shifts his weight back and forth, not knowing what to say aside from ‘ _isn’t it better than I’m telling you this now?’_

He jumps when Harry looks up abruptly. “Do you have the letters I wrote to you?”

Louis can’t help himself. He glances at the drawer of his writing desk, then looks away as fast as he can. He doesn’t know if Harry caught it or not. 

“Harry,” he begins. 

“ _Do you_?” 

Harry sounds more urgent now than he had a moment ago. Something about that tugs at Louis’ chest and he falters. What’s the point in lying, still? 

“Yes,” Louis says. 

“Get them out.” And suddenly Harry is moving, pacing again, but without any sort of direction or purpose. Before Louis can move, he holds up a hand halting him. “Or don’t, actually. We don’t need them. I told you speaking with you was the easiest thing that I’ve ever done, do you remember that? It was maybe the fourth or fifth letter that I ever sent you.” 

_Fourth,_ Louis thinks. He doesn’t say it. 

Not only does he remember the letter, he remembers the day that he read it. He’d felt so light when he’d finished the letter — like he could step into the air and somehow fly. Harry found it as easy to write to him as Louis found it to write back. They understood one another. 

But that wasn’t true, because Louis had been lying from the very first day. 

Harry doesn’t wait for Louis to respond. He doesn’t even seem to need an answer, actually. It’s like he knows it already. 

“What about when I told you that you understood me like no one else?” he pushes on. “That it was only with you that I could do anything at all. Do you remember that?” 

Louis wets his lips, watching Harry from across the room. “I remember.” 

Harry tilts his head a little. Still, he isn’t angry. His curiously seems entirely genuine, like he really wants to know. “Did you think that I was lying?” 

Flushing, Louis shakes his head hastily. “Of course not.” 

Harry takes that in and then pauses to think. Louis watches it happen on his face, the way that he seems to shift through his thoughts and figure out what to ask next. “Do you think that it wasn’t me, writing to you?” 

Louis doesn’t flinch this time. Even though he’d been lying to Harry the entire time they’d spoken, he’d never once thought that Harry was doing the same. Harry was too good. “No.” 

Harry stops moving about quite so much. As Louis’ answers settle on him, he seems to hold himself a little more carefully. He stands where he is for a moment, then nods to himself. Then he’s walking again, slowly, across the room and into Louis’ space once more. 

Louis doesn’t step back this time. He waits as Harry approaches him, lifting his chin when Harry finally stops right before him. 

“I said those things, Louis,” Harry says, voice low. “I wrote them and I meant them, and I think you did the same. I think you loved me too.” 

Louis swallows. His throat is so, so dry. 

There doesn’t seem to be any point in arguing. Harry’s seen through him, seen through the last of the desperate facades that Louis’ tried to keep up. 

“Why does it matter?” Louis fights not to shrink away under Harry’s stare, but it’s a battle hard-won. “Why are we talking about this now? You’re leaving tomorrow and we’ll likely never speak to one another again. So why does it matter if I loved you?” 

As he says it, the absurdity of their conversation hits him all at once. Harry has been here for months, almost half a year, and they’ve never been able to speak like this. Why should they have this conversation now, for Harry to simply disappear, to head back to the home where he belongs? 

Harry breathes deeply, his eyes never leaving Louis’ face. “It just does,” he says. “I need to know.” 

And that —

How can Louis argue with that? 

He’s kept so much else from Harry, failed to be honest in the moment where it has truly mattered. Even if it hurts him now to admit the truth, maybe he can offer some sense of closure to Harry. He can be honest, for Harry. 

So he swallows. As much as he’d like to look away, he forces himself not to. 

“Harry,” he says, slowly, ever so carefully. “I — I did.” 

But even that isn’t the whole truth, is it? For a beat, a tiny little pause, Louis has the choice once again to either be brave or be a coward. When he looks back on this moment, which one will he wish that he’d chosen? 

He watches Harry’s face. It’s open, trusting even now, and that seals the decision for him. 

“I do.” 

They’re close enough that Louis can hear Harry’s sharp intake of breath. He doesn’t say anything else, just stares down at Louis, and Louis burns a little under his gaze. It’s not an awful thing to have the truth out there and between them. Louis feels a little lighter, but that doesn’t give him any sort of insight as to what Harry is thinking. 

He can only wait. 

They stand there, mere inches that feel like the entire world between them, for a long while. Harry’s gaze maps every inch of Louis’ face, and again Louis can see as the thoughts whiz through his head. 

After an age, Harry moves. He brings his hand up carefully, so carefully, and even though he’s been watching the entire move, Louis can’t help but jump a little when Harry reaches for him. 

“What are you doing?” The question escapes him as a whisper. The entire room seems to have dropped away, leaving only the scant space between them. 

Harry licks his lips. The movement catches Louis’ eye and he can’t help but stare, just at the pinkness of his mouth. 

“You said,” Harry is just as quiet as Louis had been. “You said at the banquet that I’m brave. I’m — “ He swallows. “I want to prove you right.” 

His hand moves again, curling around the nape of Louis’ neck. It’s the first time that their skin has touched, and Louis burns with it. Suddenly his heart is in his throat, every part of him narrowed down to the light touch of Harry’s fingertips on his neck. “Harry—”

Harry soothes his thumb across Louis’ skin, brushing against the hair at the back of Louis’ neck. He shakes his head, a tiny movement. “Let me,” he whispers. “Let me prove that you were right.” 

“I—” 

Louis doesn’t — 

He can’t — 

He —

Harry kisses him. It’s impossibly slow, the way that he ducks his head and leans in. It’s barely there to start, just the lightest brush of Harry’s lips against Louis’. When Louis makes a little sound, surprised even despite himself, Harry pushes in further. Louis’ eyes flutter closed, and he, he can’t help himself. He pushes back, up into Harry’s kiss, and then he’s lost. He’s a man without water, finally taking a drink. 

He lifts his hand to cradle Harry’s chin, the other grasping firmly at Harry’s arm. He opens his mouth to Harry, letting Harry bite down lightly on Louis’ bottom lip and feeling dizzy from it. Harry’s fingers dig in, pressing lightly at the back of Louis’ head and holding him close. Harry holds him like he’s something precious, which part of Louis can’t believe, even as he’s caught up by it. 

He’s given Harry no reason to hold him like that. 

When he pulls back, he can’t quite bring himself to go all the way. He leans his forehead against Harry’s, which feels almost more intimate than the kiss itself had. It takes him a moment to get his thoughts straight. 

“We should,” Louis stops, licks his lips. He can taste Harry there. “We should stop.” 

Harry doesn’t pull away either. He leans closer, his lips brushing Louis’ once more. His eyes are still shut. “Why?” 

Louis leans into it, squeezing at Harry’s arm, trying to ground himself. “You’re—” He’s leaving, he’s leaving so soon, and why would they do this when there’s no time left at all? “There’s no point to this.” 

Harry shakes his head, still impossibly close. “There is a point. There is.” 

“What is it then?” 

Harry does pull aside then, only a little way. He leans back more than he steps back and doesn’t shake away Louis’ hands. He keeps his hold on Louis. “I’ve been unfair to Ryde, I think.” 

Louis blinks. He’s a little dazed. “What?” 

Harry moves his thumb again, bringing it down just a little to stroke at the corner of Louis’ chin. “So much has happened since I arrived here. Everything with the letters and then everything with Sicea. I felt — I felt so trapped here.” 

Louis is certain Harry feels it when he clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry.” 

But Harry doesn’t look at him with any anger. This is the softest that Louis has ever seen him. “You didn’t cause the attack on my people, Louis.” 

For the first time since kissing him, Louis glances away. Not far — he focuses on Harry’s mouth, his neck, instead of looking him in the eye. 

“I know that.” 

Harry smiles. “Now I know it too. I’ve held you responsible for a long time, but I was wrong.” 

Louis’ had time to think about this, about all the things he could have done better. He should have helped more with his mother, stood up for Harry and made sure they were better allies than they were.

“There was more I should have done,” Louis says. 

But Harry shakes his head. “Gemma told me.” 

Louis stills. “What?”

“Gemma told me about your going to Andras,” Harry says, and Louis feels a little hollowed out by his words. So he knew that Louis had organised the wedding then. Why wasn’t he spitting mad? “You organised her meeting with Michal.” 

Gaping, the only thing that Louis can think to say is, “Oh. I asked her not to.” 

Harry moves his thumb again. It’s intoxicating, the soft drag of it against Louis’ skin. “She told me that too. Don’t be angry with her. I’m glad that she told me. It made me listen.” 

Louis has no idea how to respond to that. “I’m sorry,” is the only thing that feels right. 

“Stop apologising,” Harry says. “You lied to me about a lot, and I — I was angry with you for it. But lying doesn’t make you a villain.” 

Louis has to lean away a little now. He can’t quite bring himself to put out of Harry’s grasp, but he edges towards it. There's so much faith in the look that Harry is giving him and he doesn’t deserve it. “You don’t know that.” 

“I think that you’re a good man.” Harry doesn’t directly refute Louis’ claim, but he does follow as Louis’ steps away. His other hand had touched Louis' waist when they’d kissed, and he keeps his grip there firm. “It’s taken me a long time to realise that, but I do. I think if you had told me yourself I wouldn’t have listened, I would have searched for some new lie. But Gemma was right. You saved my country, even when I gave you no reason to care for it.”

It’s what Louis has been saying this entire time — that Harry has no reason to trust Louis, that Louis hasn’t given him one — but it still stings to hear Harry admit it. 

“You didn’t have to give me a reason,” he says. Even if there had been nothing between them, no history, Louis would have cared about Sicea’s attack on Andras. Or he likes to think that he would. 

“I know that now,” Harry says. “I didn’t then. You’re a good man, Louis, and a good prince. One day you’ll be a great king. I should have seen that earlier.” 

Louis can’t help but shake his head. “I’ve been cruel to you Harry.” 

“And I was cruel to you.” Harry steps a little closer until there’s barely any space left between them at all. Heat radiates from his body, long and lithe and a mere breath away from Louis’. “But you said you love me, in spite of that. Allow me to do the same.” 

He brings his other hand up and away from Louis’ waist now, settling it on the other side of Louis’ head. He cradles Louis’ jaw, tilting it up just a little so that they can look at one another. It’s only now that Louis realises he must have dropped the letter at some point. 

Louis feels like his legs might give way beneath him. “You?” He’s breathless, not even wanting to hope. “You—?” 

He doesn’t know how to ask. Harry loves him? 

But Harry shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, and he tightens his hold just a little like he worries that Louis might pull away completely. “I don’t know if I love you yet. But I’d like the chance to.” 

Louis stares at him. All rational thought has fled him, leaving only a swelling warmth in his chest. The blooming possibility of something. “Really?”

“Yes.” Harry doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve been unfair to you, and I’ve been unfair to Ryde. Let me try and fix that.” 

A light breeze could blow Louis away at any moment. It could blow everything away, actually. That’s how fragile this little space feels. “How?” 

Harry leans in close, his nose bumping into Louis’. His lips ghost over Louis’ again and he smiles. It’s brilliant from this close. “Ask me again,” he whispers. 

For a minute, Louis is confused. “What?” 

“You know what.” 

And Louis finds that he does. It’s not the how from moments earlier that Harry is asking for now. It’s —

“Harry, this isn’t a good idea.” 

Harry only hums, soft, confident. “I think it is.” 

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t know me. I can’t — I don’t know if I can be the man in those letters.” 

He can see the open chest just over Harry’s shoulder and the letters that fill it. It feels like too much, far too much to live up to. 

“You already are,” Harry says. 

“What if I’m not, though?” Louis looks up for him, really, truly wanting to hear the answer. “What if I ask you and you — we get it wrong?” 

“I’ve gotten it wrong before,” Harry says, and this time he does dip his head down and steal another swift kiss. “This feels different. This feels like the opposite.” 

Louis wants to believe him. He wants to believe him with everything that he has. But —

“Why? You don’t know if this will work.” 

Harry pulls back barely an inch. He watches Louis’ face closely, his smile shifting into something serious. “It’s a chance. That’s what you said before.” The memory swirls in Louis’ head, the moonlight on the leaves that surrounded them, the way he’d almost begged Harry to understand. But Harry had known better then, he’d known that even that chance wasn’t worth it. Harry pulls him out of his thoughts with another brush of his fingers, this time through the hair above Louis’ right ear. “You said that it was a chance. And I’ll — I want to risk it.” 

“For the chance?” Louis asks. 

Harry shakes his head, just barely. “For you. For the you I know from your letters and for the you that you’ve proven yourself to be here.” 

If it weren’t for the places where Harry was holding him, Louis might have very well fallen to pieces. He searches for all the other reasons that Harry shouldn’t do this. “Harry.” 

“Ask me,” Harry says, over whatever it was that Louis was going to say next. He hadn’t figured that part out yet. 

Louis searches Harry’s face, desperate to find a hint of uncertainty there. A moment of hesitation. If Harry doesn’t want this, isn’t sure about this, then Louis would rather know now. 

He finds nothing. 

His heart pounds. 

“Will you marry me?” He asks quietly. 

And Harry nods as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Yes, Louis,” he says. “I will.” 

When he kisses Louis again, it is with the clearest of intentions. He wants this, he says to Louis through the rough slide of his lips. This is a chance that he wants to take. And as Louis kisses him back, reaching up to thread his fingers through Harry’s hair and hold him close, he finds that he believes him. 

They have a chance. 

♚

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through this fic, I realised I needed to tag it as 'pre-relationship'. It occurred to me that by writing a historical au, with politics and arranged marriages to negotiate, I was writing for a Harry and Louis who didn't have the chance to slowly fall in love, but instead needed to take a chance on each other. 
> 
> I am hoping to write a follow up to this fic, wherein Harry and Louis learn if the chance is worth it. Please let me know if you'd be interested in reading. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you have enjoyed reading this and would love, love, love to hear your final thoughts. Again, many thanks to the hlroyaltyficfest for allowing me to take part and motivating me to actually finish a fic in good time. Also thanks to everyone who has cheereleaded me and this fic on tumblr or in our many groupchats. Love ya all to bits. 
> 
> So that's all folks! (Maybe see you for part two?)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic of this length that I haven't been able to share with you chapter by chapter. I know you're probably very pleased that you don't have to wait before clicking to the next chapter, but I'm a bit worried because I always find I get less feedback when a fic is posted in one go. 
> 
> It would mean the world to me if you could pause at the end of each chapter and share with me your thoughts. There's a lot of things I've done for the first time with adjudication - swapping POVs, letter writing, a hazy attempt at political intrigue - and I'm desperate to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/190435813937), and I'm [here](https://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com). Come say hello x


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